Scars of War
by sss979
Summary: Murdock unwillingly relives memories of Vietnam while the Team is commissioned to help someone from his past. (Completely re-edited and largely rewritten book from my 2008-2011 series. Book 1 of 19.) WARNING: Wartime violence.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

 **September, 1969**

Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith hadn't quite decided what to think of the squinty-eyed man who'd summoned him all the way to the C-base at Pleiku. He'd never met this clean-cut, broad-shouldered general - they apparently ran in different circles - and without time to ask around for other soldiers' opinions, he was left to determine for himself whether or not General Carl Davids was worthy of the sort of respect his rank demanded.

"How up-to-date are you on current events, Smith?" the general asked in a gruff voice that couldn't quite manage pleasantry even if he tried.

"Depends on the event, Sir," Smith answered calmly. Although not intimidated by the presence of a superior officer nearly twice his size, he carefully maintained a respectful tone to go with the confidence he radiated.

The self-assuredness shouldn't have been surprising to the older man; Davids had asked for the best. More than that, the request was submitted straight to the top - to General Ross Westman in Da Nang. Westman, in turn, sent Smith - a man six months into his "second tour" - and his team to clean up God-knows-what mess was brewing here. Feeling no need to complicate the definition of "tour" with a discussion of how long he'd actually been in Southeast Asia, the young colonel wondered if Davids knew even half of what his team was used to dealing with. For that matter, there was no telling if Davids had any clue about what went on out there in the "real war." It was perfectly feasible that his experience of Vietnam could be strictly limited to the mugginess of the unimpressive but structurally intact office graciously bestowed upon him by his rank.

"What do you know about A Shau?" Davids asked, rising from his scarred and pockmarked desk and reaching for his pipe before heading to the narrow window.

"At ease" in the bright, sterile office, legs slightly apart and hands behind his back, Smith eyed the general cautiously and contemplated the question. He could play dumb, but what would be the point? Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion the more he knew, the quicker this briefing would be and the faster he could retreat from this plain-looking room with the irritatingly noisy and fairly useless metal fan in the corner. Every breath of air felt like drowning, fan or no, and he was anxious to move on.

"I know the camp was lost three days ago," Smith finally answered, safely. In fact, he happened to be particularly informed about the incident at A Shau. The camp's XO had been a close personal friend in Korea.

General Davids lit his pipe, then cast a long, scrutinizing gaze in Smith's direction. By now, the man at least a dozen years his senior would've begun to second guess the reputation preceding the young colonel - too young, really, except in times of war when officers were at a premium. Smith lacked no confidence, and yet had little hope of an end to the fighting. In fact, he would be here in this stifling hot mess of a war until death or the bitter end, whichever came first; he'd put in his request for a voluntary indefinite status long ago and most of his team had done the same.

"Please," Davids invited, gesturing with a wave of his hand. "Continue."

Smith drew in a deep, cleansing breath and tipped his head up a little. "A Shau is an A-Team camp about thirty miles southwest of Hue," he recalled, "adjacent to the Ho Chi Minh Trail. We had ten Green Berets out there along with about two hundred CIDG and a couple Air Commando units. Last week, the camp's XO sent word that there might be an attack, so Nha Trang sent a Mike Force. After two days of fighting, the camp was evacuated."

Davids studied him carefully for a moment, then nodded conclusively. "You know quite a bit."

"Captain Blake and I did a rotation together in Korea," Smith said flatly.

"Yes, I know."

A long silence followed the unassuming statement. Smith recognized the attempt to damage his confidence - to make him feel as though he could make no assumptions about what might come next. A deep and heartfelt but purely internal sigh sufficed in lieu of the dismissive, unimpressed tone he really wanted to use. Nothing surprised him anymore, and short of "the war's over," he couldn't think of a single shocking thing that might spill out of the cleanly dressed and neatly groomed man's mouth. Clandestine operations riddled with plausible deniability were Hannibal's bread and butter.

Of course, it wouldn't be the first time the reputation for getting jobs done quickly and efficiently might be cause for suspicion and even alarm for the REMFs in their cozy offices both in and out of the country. The simple fact was, he operated with even more efficiency the fewer questions he would have to answer, and that did have a tendency to raise some red flags. He wouldn't have honestly minded the distrust if it had simply been stated from the beginning; all of the prerequisite beating around the bush irritated the hell out of him. It was a game - "How much do you know so that I can determine how much I have to explain?" Perhaps more importantly, how much Smith knew determined how much information would be withheld.

Bureaucratic bullshit, special clearance, classification rating - it all meant precisely dick to him. Too much time in the jungle, too many kills, and too many men lost had made him care less for red tape than for the assholes who would've preferred to bind his hands with it before sending him into battle. Smith's concern was - and always had been - getting the job done, sometimes against overwhelming odds. All he needed was a target and a time frame; he didn't much know or care about anything else. Perhaps General Westman had failed to mention that.

"The NVA had four battalions," Davids explained, pacing back to his desk in anxiety unbecoming of a man with his rank. "They also had a bunch of sympathizers in the camp. The weather was on their side, too - a lot of cloud cover we couldn't fly through on the first night. Twenty antiaircraft guns for anyone who'd try to fly under it."

Smith wasn't terribly interested in any of this. Reasons - or, perhaps more properly, excuses - for battles lost were only important to those wanting an explanation to give to families. The NVA had plenty of soldiers and sympathizers and the weather on the first night of the attack was irrelevant now. But still, speaking as though he were delivering a riveting speech of astronomical importance, Davids turned and fixed Smith in a serious gaze.

"We started the battle with seventeen Green Berets, six LLDB, 143 Nung soldiers from the Mike Force, 210 CIDG, seven interpreters, and 51 civilians in the camp," he reported.

Smith offered a polite smile before replying curtly, "Your recall is impressive. That's an awful lot of numbers to remember."

Davids ignored him, perhaps sensing the hint of sarcasm, and turned away again. "Shortly before 0400 on the morning of September 9, the NVA began a mortar attack that lasted for two and a half hours. Halfway through it, they attacked the south wall, but were held off. We had a very difficult time getting any kind of air support or supplies - or even evacuating the wounded - because of the weather and their goddamn rocket fire. Two Marine CH-34s made it in, but one of them crashed. We also lost an AC-47. The next morning, the bastards did it all over again. This time when they breached the wall, the 141st CIDG Company turned on us and deserted to the enemy."

Smith's eyes narrowed, finally receiving some information worth processing. The strategist who'd planned the attack was clearly competent, and he had to wonder just how early the enemy had penetrated the camp in order to have enough sympathizers among the CIDG to turn the whole group to the enemy. The indigenous soldiers he had worked with were invaluable assets to any team he took out. True, he was only assigned those who had already been seasoned in the field and at times, even they were skittish when they saw the odds stacked against them. But they would never desert to the enemy. The thought was appalling, even offensive.

"Anybody still alive went to the communications bunker in the north corner of the camp," Davids continued. "But it got worse. We ended up having to run air strikes on the south and east wall of our own camp. Captain Blake made the decision to abandon the camp at 1500 hours on September 10. But when the Marines landed the rescue choppers, the remaining CIDG panicked and overran them. It got so bad, our men had to shoot into the crowd just to get things under control."

Eyes narrowed in silent scrutiny of the need for such drastic measures, Smith decided to say nothing. He wasn't there, after all, and couldn't speculate on what he might have done differently. Still pacing in a worrisome display of unprofessionalism, Davids recalled the events with such melodramatic tension, Smith would've thought he was actually there himself.

"They left with only 60 of the remaining soldiers from the camp," he finally concluded. "We don't know exactly how many of those left behind were still alive at the time, but those who could ran into the jungle and we've been picking them up ever since."

"How many did we lose?" Smith asked. He had a sneaking suspicion that the general would be able to quote the numbers off the top of his head.

"Of the 210 CIDG soldiers, more than half were evacuated and most left behind had deserted to the enemy. We had 75 Mike Force killed, 33 wounded, fifteen MIA. Of the crew stationed at the camp, five dead and ten wounded."

Well, what do you know? Smith had been right about the number recall. But as he quickly did the math, he frowned. "That doesn't add up."

"And that's why you're here," Davids replied with a nod.

Finally, it was getting interesting. Smith watched the man carefully, wary of his tight, uncomfortable smile. "There are two Americans out there, MIA," the general continued. "One of them, First Sergeant Alan Parker with the Mike Force, has a fairly high security clearance. We need him back."

Smith raised a brow. Talk about a tall order... Not only was he being asked to penetrate enemy territory and find a POW camp - in and of itself an impressive feat - but he had to find a particular one and rescue a particular person to bring them safely back to base? The odds certainly warranted a team like Smith's, and he could see why Davids had made the request. What he wasn't sure about was why Westman had agreed to the importance of the mission. What single man could be worth so much trouble?

"What makes you think he's still alive?" Smith asked suspiciously.

The general sighed. "We can't know that he is," he admitted. "But I want you to find out. There's seventeen men unaccounted for and any of them might still be alive. Your objective is to bring Parker out, but I'd like to see some of those other men recovered, too, if at all possible."

Smith stared back at the general for a long moment, contemplating the mission carefully. It posed the kind of challenge he normally enjoyed, but he had a feeling he was still missing a few pieces of the puzzle.

"What are we calling this operation, Sir?" he asked, prodding the uneasy man as carefully as possible.

"Call it whatever you want, Colonel," Davids deadpanned.

Interest suddenly piqued, Smith raised a surprised brow. "Sir?"

Davids sighed deeply and looked up. Suddenly, he looked very old and very tired, as though he had no more energy to spend on worrying over this matter or, for that matter, this war.

"I'll be perfectly honest with you," he said after a long pause. "I'm giving you complete jurisdiction over this operation because it is going to be completely off the books. You go in with your team and you do whatever it is you do. You bring that man back. I don't care where you have to go, who you have to kill, or what kind of deal you have to make with the devil. You let me handle the paperwork."

Smith's eyes narrowed, studying the senior officer very carefully, cautiously. Why keep a search and rescue off the books? His team did this sort of thing on an almost-weekly basis, although admittedly the details were far more specific now than usual. So specific, in fact, that no one in their right mind would risk the lives of their men on such an impossible mission...

"You've been ordered to leave this alone," Smith realized slowly. "You wanted me because you know my team can do it cleanly. And you won't have to explain a damn thing because you got permission to draft this mission from Westman himself."

Davids smiled tightly, but looked more like a man bravely facing an execution than a battle hardened general distributing orders. "Before you ask," he said, "General Westman was given a full briefing of the actual mission. I'm not asking you to lie to your CO. I also told him the paperwork on this assignment is going to reflect that you took A-5296 to a recon mission twenty klicks south of A Shau."

An amused smile crossed Smith's face. "Depending on who you're trying to sell that explanation to," he said, "you may have some trouble making it convincing when Parker shows up here, safe and sound."

"That's my problem, not yours."

Smith watched him for a long moment. The tired look in his eyes hinted at the explanation he would - or, rather, wouldn't - give. If they were successful, he would bear the consequences. What the hell was so important about Sergeant Alan Parker that a decorated field general would risk a dishonorable discharge to bring him back? Although Smith instinctively wanted to ask, he realized before the words came that he really didn't want to know. This was not simply a matter of dodging red tape; Davids was actually going to falsify records, whether or not they succeeded. It wasn't a mortal sin in Smith's eyes; he'd done it before, personally. But this general wasn't even Special Forces and this was most certainly not his run-of-the-mill op.

Smith's opinion of the man was changing. It didn't really matter why Parker was important. Whether for the information he possessed or for his own sake, the soldier had taken priority over the bureaucratic bullshit. It took balls for Davids to make a decision like this, to risk rank and even career for the sake of one man. Rather, to risk it all for the chance that one man might actually still be alive and could even be rescued.

But paperwork and impossibilities aside, it was a risky job. Aside from the obvious danger of an extraction of a POW - if Parker was still breathing - they would have to do it with no air support, no communication with the base, and no rescue to pull them out if they failed. If they were caught or killed, they did it while disobeying their "official orders." But if it succeeded, Alan Parker and anyone else still alive would get to go home to their families. And Smith's team would not fail. It was just that simple.

"You said complete jurisdiction, Sir," he pointed out, fixing the general in a hard stare. "How complete did you mean?"

Davids shook his head. "Once you're out that door, Smith, I don't want to know what you did or how you did it. I just want our men back."

Colonel Smith felt a smile come across his face as he considered those words. That sounded like complete jurisdiction to him. Apparently Davids knew how this game was played. It didn't take Smith long to come to the conclusion he knew the general had expected all along.

"Sounds like my kind of operation, Sir," he said with an accepting nod. "I'll brief my team just as soon as I get back."


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

 **1985**

"Come on, Hannibal, I really like this girl." Murdock sounded suspiciously close to begging. "I been seein' her two months now an' I only get to see her during visiting hours or when I can sneak out, but I always got to get back before morning."

Hannibal appeared to be ignoring every word, throwing more supplies into the back of the van - blankets and camp stoves and kerosene lanterns and all the things Face had assured them would absolutely not be necessary for this particular "camping" trip. Murdock followed on Hannibal's heels like an overly energetic puppy. "She comes out twice a week to the hospital and it's a hundred-mile drive for her! I promised her we'd spend some time together this weekend and it's just a perfect opportunity. Come on, it's not like she'll get in the way."

Leaning against the side of the van, Face watched with amusement, arms crossed loosely. "Maybe you should try getting down on your knees, Murdock," he suggested with a slight smirk.

Murdock took the advice, ignoring the sarcasm, and dropped to his knees, crawling behind Hannibal with hands clasped in front of him. "Pleeease? Please please please..."

As if suddenly realizing he hadn't actually delivered a verdict he'd made twenty minutes ago, Hannibal shrugged. "Doesn't make any difference to me, Murdock."

The offhanded, casual tone of the response didn't detract from the younger man's joy as he sprang back up. "Aw, man, this is gon' be great!" He hurried to the front seat of the van, passing Face without so much as a glance.

Behind him, Face chuckled quietly. "I think he's really got it in for this girl, Hannibal."

He couldn't hear the response, but wasn't really listening. Instead, he focused intently on the sound of the ringing phone, waiting for the love of his life to answer. Thankfully, it only took three rings. "Hello?"

His smile broadened a little at the sound of her voice, and he rested his head back on the passenger seat, eyes closed. "Morning, pretty lady," he greeted in his warmest, smoothest voice, masking the excitement that was threatening to bubble over. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No," she answered. He could hear the smile, and it made him smile, too. "I've been up. How are you?"

"I'm great. Hey, listen." He opened his eyes and sat forward a little, unable to contain the energy any longer. "You remember how I said to keep the weekend open? That I was gon' come and spend some time with you?"

"Yeah..." The way she led him with that hopeful tone made his smile broaden until it spread across his whole face.

"Friend of mine got this great little cabin way up in the mountains in Colorado." He glanced back, along the side of the van where Face had been standing, but had now moved on. "We're gon' go up an' spend a few days. You wanna come?"

She only hesitated for the briefest of seconds, but it still felt like too long. "When are you leaving?" she asked.

Practically bouncing on the springs of the passenger seat, he replied enthusiastically, "I'll pick you up in an hour!"

Her tight laugh was not really the response he'd been hoping for. "An hour?" she repeated uneasily. "I have appointments this afternoon. I can't just -"

"Come on, Kelly, I really wanna see you." That same pleading tone was just a little bit softer with her than with Hannibal. "Wouldn't it be great just to get away for a few days? Way up in the mountains with no civilization for miles?"

She sighed audibly, readying another protest, and he decided it would be best to cut her off with his biggest and best, "Please?" Thankfully, he'd been practicing on Hannibal so he was all warmed up.

She hesitated, not answering right away, and he smiled, knowing he'd won. "Okay," she finally agreed. "I'll see if I can get Leanne to come in a little early. She was going to take care of things for me this weekend so..."

"Great!" Murdock cried. Glancing to the side, he saw Fact perch in the open doorway with one hand up against the top of the frame and the other on his hip.

"I'll see you in an hour," Kelly finished.

"Okay. I love you."

Face's smirk warned Murdock that as soon as he hung up this phone, he was going to be harassed for the choice of words. He didn't mind, particularly. At least he could say with absolute certainty it was worth it.

"I love you, too," she answered sweetly, and he knew he was beaming as he hung up the phone.

Face didn't even wait for him to pull his hand away from it. "Love you?" he challenged with a grin. "You're not getting serious about this girl, are you?"

He stepped back as Murdock pushed his way out of the van, still grinning from ear to ear. "I told you, Faceman, I really like her. A whole lot."

"Kelly, right?" Face followed a few steps behind as Murdock walked to the back of the van. "That girl the bounty hunters went after?"

"Actually, they were after me," Murdock corrected. He paused, and spun around, head tipped back as he considered. "No, come to think of it, they were after you."

"Sure you won't come with us, Face?" Hannibal interrupted, glancing up as BA emerged from the apartment carrying one last backpack.

Face gave a look that was both amused by the question and disgusted by the prospect, as if someone had just asked him if he'd like to shave his head and dye his eyebrows purple. "Are you nuts?" he asked tactfully.

Murdock grinned, but had no opportunity to reply before Face passed him a warning glare and clarified his response. "Camping is not exactly my idea of a good time."

"It's not really camping," Hannibal pointed out, closing up the doors and heading for the front passenger seat. "It's a cabin. Camping requires tents."

"I'll stay here, thanks." Face waved off the offer the way he would have dismissed a bottle of cheap wine - with an arrogant smile. "You all have a great time. I'll be sipping champagne in an air-conditioned penthouse suite with Martha."

"Let's go!" BA ordered, trudging a path right between Face and Murdock. "I wanna get there by dark!"

He opened the doors Hannibal had just shut, and took a startled step back as an avalanche of bags and clothes and fishing gear nearly toppled out. Reacting quickly, he slammed the doors shut again and grumbled as he took his own backpack with him to the front of the van.

"We've got to make a stop first," Hannibal mentioned, pausing to light a cigar as BA climbed in. With a wave to Face, Murdock joined them, sliding the side panel of the van closed and dodging the backpack BA tossed haphazardly into the seat normally occupied by Face.

Clearly impatient, BA growled under his breath. "What for?"

"To pick up Murdock's girlfriend," Hannibal answered with a grin.

BA looked up suddenly, wide-eyed. "Murdock's what?"

If Murdock hadn't been on cloud nine, he might have almost been offended by BA's shock.

*X*X*X*

"You better make this quick, fool!" BA snapped as he pulled the van to a halt in front of the plain looking white house with the rust colored shingles and surprisingly tall chimney on top. "I wanna get there before dark. I don't like drivin' my van in the mountains in the dark."

Murdock didn't acknowledge the impatient tone, already vaulting out the side of the van. He jogged to the wide porch, smiling to himself at the bullet fragments embedded in the shingles - evidence of their first visit to the property. Taking the steps two at a time, he bounded toward the door and smiled as it opened before he had a chance to knock. But he didn't miss a beat, stepping over the threshold and sweeping the auburn-haired woman into his arms. A squeak of surprise escaped her lips as he twirled her around, feet flailing behind her in an instinctive attempt to counterbalance.

"Murdock!" She laughed as he set her back down in the living room. "My gosh, I don't think I've ever seen you in such a good mood!"

"Oh, I'm in a great mood, baby." He smiled, taking her face in both hands and kissing her soundly. "Where's your stuff? This is gon' be great!"

"It's right over there." Still smiling, she push her hair back before pointing in the direction of the sofa.

He practically skipped over to the suitcase and neatly rolled sleeping bag. "Man, I used to love camping as a kid," he rambled excitedly. "All that fresh air and sunshine... Hardly ever get to do stuff like that anymore. Think the last time we did anything even remotely like camping we ended up dealin' with these crazy bank robber types who robbed an armored car. And then the park rangers called the military police 'cause they recognized us and we had to cut our whole vacation down to a single day just 'cause it was gettin' waaaaaaay too crowded in those woods. But this time..." He stopped so suddenly - turning to her with a big smile - that she almost ran right into him. With one hand, he picked up the suitcase and with the other, he circled her waist, pulling her close.

"This time, it's not gon' be like that 'cause this time it's just gon' be fun and enjoyable... and relaxing..." His words started to trail off as his thoughts wandered. "Quiet... romantic..." She smiled, eyes sliding closed as he leaned closer and brushed her lips lightly. "We get to spend the whole weekend together without havin' to worry who's listenin' to us talk or how long we got 'fore I gotta get back..." The slow, intimate kiss seemed to make the whole world stop, and she melted into his arms. "And I get to make love to you under the stars and wake up with you in my arms when the sun comes up."

She sighed deeply, opening her eyes slowly and lazily. "Sounds like heaven," she admitted.

"Come on, let's go!" His energy returned so suddenly, he almost pulled her off her feet. She only just managed to snag the sleeping bag before stumbling behind him.

He paused just long enough to let her lock the front door, then ran to the van, still idling in the driveway with the side door open. A bit less willing to sprint for the vehicle, it took her a few seconds more before she paused, peered into the van, and tossed the sleeping bag inside next to the suitcase already neatly deposited between the two back seats. Murdock stood behind her with a steadying hand on the small of her back as she stepped up, and the moment she sat down, Hannibal turned and offered a smile around his cigar.

"I think we met briefly," he started. "But we were never really introduced. I'm Hannibal Smith."

"Kelly Stevens," she smiled back, shaking his hand.

Murdock vaulted into his own seat, beaming. "Kelly's a veterinarian," Murdock added. "She takes care of all kinds of animals."

"Shut the door, Murdock!" BA barked impatiently. "We gotta go!"

Kelly blinked at the abrupt tone, then stared at Murdock as he slammed the side door shut with no regard for the harsh order. "That's BA," he gestured, for her benefit. "He'd shake your hand, but he has an image to uphold. He wouldn't wanna seem too friendly."

She opened her mouth to respond, but clearly had no words. Hannibal smiled in her direction as Murdock set to the task of fastening his seatbelt. "Don't let it bother you, Miss Stevens," he said reassuringly. "We're happy to have you along."

Sure that her smile was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen, Murdock fixed his gaze on her and let the thoughts wander over the days to come as she nodded her thanks for the warm welcome. "Please," she insisted, "call me Kelly."

 **1969**

Colonel Smith didn't look up to see who'd stepped into the dingy green, floorless tent and gestured for his attention. "Someone here to see you, Sir."

"Yep," he acknowledged curtly. "Send him in."

The tent flap whisked back into place, but moved aside again a moment later, followed by the squish of muddy footsteps as the newcomer stepped into the makeshift office. Smith didn't look away from the stack of paperwork on his desk - the last of the requests for the immediate transfer of his men out of Duc Co, the Forward Operating Base where they had been stationed for their previous assignment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man salute.

"Sir! First Lieutenant HM Murdock, Air Force, 20th Helicopter Squadron, 2nd Air Division."

Smith hadn't heard a greeting so formal since he'd set foot in this God-forsaken country. "I know who you are, Lieutenant," he answered, finishing the last signature before glancing up to see the tall, lanky figure in olive fatigues. "I called you here, remember?"

"Yes, Sir!"

The man stood ramrod straight, eyes forward, ready for anything and steeling himself for a reprimand. Smith almost chuckled to himself before sitting back in his rickety wooden chair. "At ease, Lieutenant," he granted. "You're not in trouble."

Lieutenant Murdock didn't relax, still prepared for the worst. He'd undoubtedly had his ass chewed by a half-dozen officers in the past few days, and he was fully prepared for a dress down at the very least, a humiliating downgrade of rank more probably, and at worst, the official word that he was being stripped of his wings.

From the man's reputation, Smith had expected someone older, with more experience. Of course, if he'd been much older he probably would've had more sense, too. The reckless abandon that highlighted HM Murdock's service record was part of what had caught Smith's eye. The man was born to fly. More specifically, he was born to fly in combat.

Finally, Smith broke the silence with a tone he hoped might just be conversational enough to ease the tension. "Have any idea why I asked you here?"

Lieutenant Murdock's jaw twitched, but he otherwise offered no visible response as he answered flatly and directly, "I'm going to take a wild guess that it has something to do with the incident at A Shau."

Smith raised a brow. "The incident?" he prodded encouragingly

Murdock took a deep breath, straightened to full attention again, and clenched his jaw. "If you haven't already heard this, you're the first person I've talked to in days who hasn't," he said coolly, with only the slightest hint of disgust. "And if you haven't heard it, I can't think of a single reason why you'd be calling me here."

Keeping his smile well hidden, Smith leaned back and took a moment to study the pilot. "How in the hell do you pull off a court martial and a recommendation for the Medal of Honor in the same day?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Not just the same day, Sir," Murdock answered flatly. "Actually, it was the same act."

Smith nodded, then steepled his fingers in front of his lips, waiting for more. When no further explanation came, he prodded gently, "Tell me about it."

Wary of the invitation, for it certainly didn't have the demanding tone he'd come to expect, Murdock stood silent for a moment, gaze flickering to the folder on the desk. "You've already read about it," he assumed. "So what is it you want to hear from me?"

With a shrug, Smith regarded the folder with the briefest glance. "You stole a Skyraider?"

"Borrowed," Murdock corrected a bit too eagerly. He corrected his tone quickly. "I borrowed it, Sir."

"You borrowed it for a mission you were totally uninvolved in," Smith clarified. "And specifically against your orders, you flew it into enemy-occupied territory without any permission whatsoever."

"Yes," Murdock replied, without the slightest hint of remorse. "I did."

"You're a Huey pilot," Smith pointed out. "What the hell were you even doing in a Skyraider?"

The vaguely derisive look that crossed the Lieutenant's face made it perfectly clear what he thought about being regarded as a pilot who could only fly one particular aircraft. "I didn't start flying the Huey until I knew I was coming here." His eyes shifted and looked straight at Smith, almost in challenge. "But I'm sure you know that, too."

Colonel Smith smiled, glad to finally be communicating with the young pilot. He did, in fact, know anything about this man that had made it to paper. But he also knew paper only recorded bits and pieces of a man, and his story.

"What made you change your mind?" Smith asked.

Murdock raised a brow, confused by the question but growing increasingly confident by the minute. It was in the way he carried himself; he simply couldn't help the fact that he knew for a fact he was damn good at his job.

"Change my mind?" he repeated.

"About flying a chopper instead of a plane." Smith studied him carefully. "Your file says you used to fly with the Thunderbirds. Seems like a bit of a downgrade to end up here."

"I wanted to be closer to the troops, Sir," Murdock answered icily. "And I knew I'd be damn good at it."

Smith smiled.

"Plus I didn't have much of a choice," Murdock continued coolly. "It's where they sent me."

Pulling a cigar from his breast pocket, Smith bit off the end and held it between his teeth as he grabbed a box of matches from off the table. He wasn't sure which of those two answers to believe - whether the pilot was given a choice or an order. So he chose to believe them both. He didn't figure the man was going to lie outright under this kind of pressure - not over something so seemingly unimportant.

"So tell me about A Shau," Smith invited again, speaking around the cigar.

Murdock drew in a sharp breath. "What about it, Sir?"

Flicking the match, Smith paused to make sure the end of the cigar was lit before waving the flame away. "Tell me what happened," he clarified, ever so patiently. Leaning back again, he regarded Murdock with the quiet expectation of a child settling in for a bedtime story.

The lieutenant eyed him suspiciously. When he finally spoke, the practiced words flowed smoothly after so many rehearsals for angry officers demanding an explanation. "Captain Blake called for an air strike on the south and east wall," Murdock reported with all the emotion of a weatherman giving a weekend forecast. "I was in the radio control center and I heard the call come through. I went. There were four of us flying. Captain Paul Tittle took a hit in the cockpit canopy and had to turn around. Major Anthony Mathers crash landed on the camp's landing strip and hid in a ditch while we tried to cover him with 20mm cannon fire. But the rescue chopper wasn't going to get there in time. Their ETA was still twenty minutes out when I landed and turned the plane around to where he was hiding. The other guys were out of ammo, so they just flew low. I picked him up and got the hell out of there. Took 19 bullet holes in the Skyraider, but Mathers was unharmed."

"You landed on an airstrip that had been torn up by two days of fighting?" Smith questioned, skeptically.

"Yes, Sir, I did." Murdock was scowling at the tent wall again. "Brought it to a stop just before I'd have hit a fuel dump, turned it around, picked up Major Mathers and took off again."

"How long was that?"

Murdock's icy glare turned briefly to confusion. "Sir?"

Puffing on his cigar a few times, Smith kept his gaze fixed on the young lieutenant. "How long were you on the ground?" he clarified.

"I don't know," the pilot admitted. "A few minutes. I wasn't exactly looking at my watch."

Smith studied him in silence for a long moment. Then, finally, he sat forward, resting both arms on the unfinished surface of the splintered wooden desk. "Why did you 'borrow' that plane, Lieutenant?" he asked, sincerely. "Did you think they wouldn't notice?"

Murdock gave a brief snort of laughter at the thought. Of course they would've noticed; he just didn't care. "That camp needed help," he said firmly.

Smith nodded, but remained unconvinced. "They had it."

"They needed _me_ ," Murdock snapped, with more emotion than he'd shown in all of his other responses combined.

A little surprised by the outburst, Smith blinked. But before he had a chance to respond, Murdock sighed deeply. "Alright, look," he started, shoulders slouching as he simply gave up trying to play by the book. "I'm up against a court martial anyways so I'm just gonna cut the crap."

With a broad smile, Smith nodded and sat back. "You do that," he said encouragingly.

"You're leading an SOG unit into A Shau," Murdock guessed, though from his tone it was hardly a stab in the dark. Amused by the man's insight, Smith remained silent and let him continue. "You want me to fly you, or you wouldn't have called me here. And I want to fly you. But unfortunately, there's a couple of MPs waiting to escort me to Saigon and they're prob'ly gon' fly me outta the country. So unless you got some special trick up your sleeve for making this all go away, I can't help you. I'm sorry."

Smith took a few puffs from his cigar, considering the young pilot's words. "Actually, the mission is not particularly near A Shau," he clarified. "It's about twenty miles south."

Lieutenant Murdock's eyes fixed again on the tent wall. "I'm sure it is, Sir," he agreed flatly.

Smith almost couldn't contain his chuckle at the response - simple and compliant, like a man accepting an order. The way the pilot's emotionless eyes had immediately diverted away suggested his reply would have been exactly the same if Smith had just told him that the sky was green.

"So do you want a second crack at them?" Smith asked.

Lieutenant Murdock's eyes flashed as he continued to stare at the tent fabric. "I want to smear their blood all over my face like war paint, Sir, but that's not why I'm here."

Smith grinned at the interesting image, and the deep, dark something that flickered in the young man's eyes, piquing his interest. Past the cold emptiness of war, there was something lost in the pilot's soul, maybe even dangerous. He didn't know what it was, but he liked it immediately, instinctively.

"So why are you here?" Smith demanded.

As if oblivious to the question's meaning, Murdock answered without hesitation, "Because you called me here."

"No," Smith corrected, so instantly and forcefully, the pilot almost jumped. Smith let the silence settle before clarifying. "That's not good enough."

Without offering anything more, Smith waited and watched as Lieutenant Murdock slowly turned that oddly intense stare toward him. He could feel the man sizing him up in every which way, eyes narrowing into slits before he finally replied, "I'm here because if you intend to get anywhere near that camp, you're going to need the best goddamn pilot in the United States Air Force to fly you there. And that'd be me."

A full grin broke out over Smith's face, and he tucked his cigar into the corner of his mouth before giving a quick nod. "That's a good reason."

Murdock didn't respond. He didn't flinch. But his eyes were on fire as he studied the colonel and waited for more. Finally, Smith stood, the dangerously shaky chair creaking as he pushed it back over the dirt floor. "I've put in a request to have you for this assignment," Smith informed. "I don't know exactly how that'll work out for your court martial, but I do know that I can be very persuasive. I'll get you cleared to fly again, and you'll be at the controls. Are you up for that?"

If the lieutenant had any reaction at all, it was only the dark shadow that passed over his eyes. "Yes, Sir," he answered.

Smith nodded, dismissing the younger man with a wave. After only a moment of hesitation, and with a slightly glazed look, Murdock gave a vacant salute and turned to leave the tent. It wasn't until he was safely out of the canvas "office" that Smith afforded himself a quiet laugh. He was going to get along with that man just fine.


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

 **1985**

Hannibal opened his eyes, awakening from his light sleep to the sound of gravel crunching beneath the van's tires and BA's gruff, "We here." Cramped and eager to stretch his legs, Hannibal rubbed his eyes and focused on the long, winding driveway ahead of them as they passed through dense evergreens. With a yawn, he glanced into the backseat to see if Murdock was still awake. After Kelly had fallen asleep about three hours back, the constant stream of chatter had ceased, much to BA's relief. But Murdock was awake, with a flashlight in one hand and a two-inch-thick book in the other.

They parked the van, and Hannibal stepped out, stretching on his way to the door of the enormous cabin. A pistol was tucked into his belt, resting against the small of his back, but it was only there out of habit, not expectation of need. His gaze wandered over the wooden structure standing amidst the tall pines and birch trees, typical of cooler climates.

"Wow," BA murmured as he shut the driver's side door a bit more quietly than usual, hesitant to break the quiet lull of nature. "Face really outdid himself this time."

Chuckling to himself, Hannibal headed up the steps to the front door. "I think he realizes as long as we're here enjoying ourselves, we're not in LA looking for another case," he admitted. "The longer we want to stay, the longer his vacation is, too."

Hannibal had a key, and as he stepped through the door and looked around, he had to admit he was a little surprised by the extravagance. "Cabin in the woods" didn't quite describe this place. It was instead the sort of place a king might go for a weekend getaway. Leather sofas and a decorative stone fireplace with a bearskin rug covered one corner, a full bar complete with dozens of unopened bottles occupied the other. Just inside the doorway, stairs rose to either side to give access to the bedrooms, and a large gallery on the second floor overlooked the living room. The kitchen was on the other side of an island, tucked neatly into the corner but still bigger and far more modern than anything Hannibal had expected. Perhaps most impressive of all, the entire west wall was made of glass, and he could see the outline of the trees and the calm surface of a small lake at the bottom of the hill. In the distance, the sun was sinking into the mountains, completing the picture of serene luxury.

"Now this is what I call camping," Hannibal grinned with an approving nod.

Murdock poked his head in the door before BA had a chance to respond. But if the pilot even noticed the lavish accommodations, he didn't mention them. "Hey, we're gon' go for a walk," he informed, his West Texas accent unusually thick with relaxation. "We'll be back in a little bit."

"Don't wander too far until we've had a chance to survey this place in the daylight," Hannibal warned. They didn't need any surprises on this little trip, and trouble seemed to come looking for them all too often.

Murdock answered with a confident smile. "We ain't goin' far, Colonel."

He slipped back out the door without another word and Hannibal watched as he jumped down the steps, took Kelly's hand, and skipped off into the trees like a child at a carnival. A smile crossed the colonel's face.

"Man," BA grumbled, "I dunno what she sees in him. But at least he ain't talkin' to his imaginary dog and actin' a fool while she's around."

Hannibal smiled genuinely. "Leave him alone, BA," he chided. "I haven't seen his eyes light up like that since the first time we broke him out of the hospital."

*X*X*X*

Kelly gasped as her back hit the wide trunk of a tree a few feet from the path. Hands clasped around her wrists, Murdock pinned her arms up high, a forceful kiss stealing what little breath she had left following the impact. He'd grabbed a blanket from the van, but it lay on the grass in a heap as he stripped her shirt quickly, not bothering to unbutton it. Shrugging his arms out of the cumbersome jacket, he gasped for breath and groped for her and the two of them struggled together with no small amount of frustration to undress themselves and each other. Finally, in a tangle of limbs, they fell onto the blanket and somehow managed to spread it out for protection from the poky long needles shed by the pine trees.

Psych meds be damned; the sex was amazing.

In the quiet moments of reflection that followed, breathless and contented, he smiled as he listened to the chirping crickets and the soft rustle of leaves in the trees. The air was cool, but her body was warm against his, and he had never been more content than lying there, under the stars and the low-hanging moon with her head resting on his chest.

"I love you," she whispered lazily.

He drank in those words with a long, slow pull of the night air, moving a hand into her silky hair. The way she felt, soft and smooth and tender - but not fragile - made him feel as though he could spend an eternity simply exploring every inch of her body.

"How did you manage to check yourself out for the whole weekend?" she asked quietly, gentle fingers tracing invisible designs on his arm.

Caught slightly off guard by the "truth or lie" confrontation, he stammered a bit before settling on an honest response. "Face got me out."

"He can do that?" she asked innocently.

With a quiet chuckle, Murdock tucked a clump of hair behind her ear before curling an arm up under his head. "Yeah, he can do that."

A shiver ran through him as lightly scratching nails found a particularly sensitive spot in the crease of his elbow. "He should do it more often," she whispered, barely audible over the sound of the rustling breeze that suddenly swept past. "I could get used to this."

Opening his eyes to stare at the canopy above, Murdock breathed deeply. He could get used to this, too. Whenever he snuck away for a night to see her, he didn't want to leave. It got harder and harder every time. Even now, in the blissful serenity of this place, holding her close and enjoying every moment of the time they had together, the eventual parting that would follow never drifted too far from his mind.

"I gotta be careful how much time I spend away," he finally said, mournfully. "I don't wanna lose my government subsidized room and board."

A bit startled by the peculiar description of his situation at the VA, she glanced up. He offered his best smile, stroking a hand gently up the smooth canvas of her back. But it was too late. The question flooded into her eyes before she said a word.

"Why do you stay there, Murdock?" she asked, not for the first time. "You're not crazy."

Prepared for this familiar line of questioning, he retreated behind the lines of well-practiced responses. "Sure I am!" he exclaimed, smile turning broad and full and definitely a bit crazy. "Just ask my shrink."

Neither convinced nor amused, her brow furrowed. He could almost see the cogs turning in her head as she struggled desperately to figure out whether he really believed that or was just teasing.

"You're not," she finally said again. "I know it. Your friends know it, too."

Just the slightest hint of discomfort wriggled its way out into the open as he cut his gaze away. He really hated this conversation. Even though his responses were scripted and well-rehearsed, they always seemed to catch in his throat. "Oh, I'm sure if you asked BA, he'd have somethin' to say 'bout how crazy I am," he replied as lightly as he could manage.

She sighed, and pushed herself upright. "Come on, Murdock, I'm being serious."

Still lying sprawled on the lumpy blanket, he offered a shrug. "So am I," he replied in a perfectly carefree tone. "Or do I need to put on my serious face?"

Furrowing up his brow, he frowned deeply in mock austerity, complete with hollowed cheeks and pouting lips. She laughed in spite of herself, and he broke into a smile again. But the smile and laughter both faded as the diversionary tactic ultimately failed. Finally, with a truly heartfelt sigh, he reached up and stroked her cheek gently.

"Kelly, it's not that I'm trying to keep secrets from you," he said quietly, rubbing a thumb back and forth over her cheekbone. "It's just that... there's some things that you're better off not knowing. For your own safety."

She raised a brow, clearly skeptical. "I'm safer not knowing things like why the man I'm in love with is institutionalized?" she challenged.

He recognized the ridiculous irony, but the full force of her challenge hit him much harder than she could've meant it to. He'd seen some violent mental illnesses in his time at the VA, some genuinely nice people who were legitimately dangerous when off their meds, through no real fault of their own.

"You know I wouldn't hurt you," he whispered. "Right?"

She offered a reassuring smile and nuzzled against his hand. "I just want to understand," she pleaded.

He sucked in a breath and finally sat up beside her, shifting a bit to get comfortable before asking the question she'd been hoping for. "Alright, what is it you wanna know?"

"Why are you in the hospital?" she demanded without hesitation.

His smile well and truly fell now, and he looked away as he felt something hollow and lonely and cold wrap its bony fingers around him. Without answering, he looked out into the darkness settling around them. The trees looked grey in the dim light from the half moon, and a faint breeze rustled the leaves, casting whispered shadows all around. What had been beautiful and peaceful only moments before suddenly felt eerie and uncomfortable.

After a long, lingering silence, she drew a breath and tried again, more gently. "Can you at least tell me what you're diagnosed with?"

She reached for her shirt, nearly tumbling over before grabbing hold of it. He watched without really seeing as she quickly shook it out, sliding her arms back into the sleeves. It was enough of a distraction to give him just a few seconds to gather his thoughts.

"My diagnosis varies depending on which doctor you ask," he answered truthfully as she finished the last of the buttons. "Shrink I been seein' on and off the past ten years says I got paranoid anxiety delusions and intermittent memory loss. But he don't really believe that. And I've gotten just about every other diagnosis in the DSM since I came back from 'Nam."

She huffed, shoulders rising and falling as she dropped her hands into her lap. "What does that mean, really?" she asked, still not satisfied.

"Alright, look," he bargained, shifting to find a more comfortable spot on the cold, hard ground. "I'll tell you what I'm not, okay?"

He glanced at her to see if that would suffice, and she nodded. Although a part of him felt relieved, he was just as sure she wouldn't be satisfied with the answer.

"Okay." He took a deep breath. " I'm not schizophrenic. I'm not manic-depressive. I don't suffer from derealization, or narcolepsy, or dissociative identity disorder." He was counting them off on his fingers now, and a smile crossed her face. "I'm not obsessive-compulsive, or paranoid delusional, or affective reactive. I don't have a sadistic, schizoid, or schizotypal personality disorder and I may or may not have some memory loss depending on what day of the week you ask me."

"Then what does that leave?" she laughed.

He sighed. "Look, I get..." He struggled for a way to explain, shaking his head and looking away uncomfortably. "I get confused. My brain starts runnin' and it just goes a million miles a minute and there just ain't no stoppin' it when it starts and I gotta deal with all the thoughts and how fast it goes... and it gets real confusing."

She didn't need to know how much of the confusion was probably the side effects of the medication itself. In fact, _he_ didn't need to think about that. It had been his baseline normal for so long, he wasn't sure what his brain would be capable of if it ever got completely off the meds. It might be the same, it might be worse, it might be better. In any case, he had long ago learned how to cope with the confusion, and how to function in spite of it.

He watched her carefully, reading the concerned expression. "Sometimes the words don't come out how they sound in my head," he continued. "Sometimes they're in the wrong order or they just don't make any sense at all. Sometimes it's not just the words; it's the whole scene or scenario that I started thinkin' and it's playin' out like a movie on a big screen right on the back of my eyes. And sometimes it gets to where I can't think at all and I kinda... lose reality. So I try to keep it from doin' that by givin' it other stuff to think about. Kinda like the way you try an' distract a bored child so he won't go get into mischief 'cause there's just nothin' better to do."

Hearing all of this come out of his own mouth made him very uncomfortable. He looked away as he continued. "I hear voices, but if it's just _me_ and not the meds, then they're usually really just my own voice."

"What do you mean, not the meds?" she interrupted, concerned.

He sighed. Damn it, he hadn't meant to say that. "The drugs are..." There had to be a better way to explain this. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of one. "A lot of different doctors have tried to diagnose me with a lot of different things. Everyone wants to fix me. I'm..." He sighed again, searching for words. "Some of the medications - _most_ of the medications - have side effects. Auditory and visual hallucinations, blurry vision, headaches..."

"You take medications for illnesses you don't have?" she asked, wide-eyed.

He laughed uneasily and rubbed the back of his neck. "I take whatever they give me. And they take my blood every week to make sure I do."

Her gasp of horror was audible. "Murdock, that's dangerous!"

"Well, yeah, kinda." Actually, it was probably very dangerous. But that did depend on one's definition of danger. "It can make you hear things. See things. But you learn to recognize what's real and what's not. If I'm hearin' voices, I _know_ I'm hearin' voices. But most of the time, it's just my own voice holding fifteen different conversations with itself at the same damn time in my head. Only time it ever really shuts up is when there's something going on in the world outside that takes up all my concentration. Like..." Slowly, he turned back and looked at her uneasily. "Like you."

She watched him for a moment. Clearly struggling for reassurance he hadn't been able to provide, she smiled tightly in the lingering silence. "I guess that's why I've never seen that side of you," she assumed.

Lowering his eyes, he let the breeze rustle the trees again before whispering so quietly, it was almost inaudible. "I am crazy, Kelly," he admitted. Gently, he reached out and took her hand, wishing he could offer something to make it all sound not as bad as it really was. "I been crazy all my life. It just got a whole lot worse after I came back from 'Nam. An' the drugs do tend to make the party in my head real interesting. But I would never, ever hurt you. You gotta believe me when I say that."

At that, her smile turned more genuine. Reaching up her free hand, she cupped his cheek, drawing his gaze up. "I know," she assured him. "I know you wouldn't."

He nuzzled against her hand a little. "Good," he answered quietly, taking a deep, refreshing breath. "'Cause as crazy as I am, I will never forget just how much I love you. Not even for a second."

Her laugh was the reassurance he needed, and it made him smile again. Sliding his arms around her, he felt the relaxation as she settled in. Finally, with a heartfelt sigh, he kissed her hair and closed his eyes.

 **1969**

The Special Forces division of the Army was relatively small and highly selective. That also made it rather incestuous; everyone knew everyone. It was rare to put together a team of SF soldiers who hadn't previously toured together somewhere, somehow. If not directly acquainted, they had mutual friends. Finding someone who knew the whereabouts of an old buddy was never hard. With all the time he'd spent hanging in their circles, Murdock was surprised he'd never met any of the soldiers in this room.

"So who the hell had the bright idea to call this thing at 2:00 in the freakin' morning?" the bleary-eyed, shockingly young blonde muttered with obvious irritation as he trudged into the TOC with his shirt in one hand and a tin cup of what passed for coffee in the other.

His dark-haired teammate grinned with amusement. Leaning back against the sandbag wall with boots crossed and hands folded over his stomach, the man who answered to the nickname "Boston" seemed perfectly happy to be awake at this hour. Murdock wasn't certain what his real name was; his uniform was distinctly lacking a name tape, or any identifying badges for that matter. Sterile fatigues were the norm for special ops.

"Element of surprise, Face," Boston replied, just shy of taunting.

The tone earned a brief glare as the boy grumbled bitterly and staggered to the wooden bench against the far wall. "Yeah. Surprise! It's too fuckin' dark to see your hand in front of your face. Never mind that big ass snake under your boot."

Clearly, "Face" was not a morning person. In fact, he looked thoroughly pissed off at having been woken up at 0200. Crumpling up his shirt, he tossed it on the bench beside where he finally plopped down without so much as acknowledging Murdock's presence. With a vaguely sympathetic smile, Boston reached into the pocket of his dirty fatigues and withdrew a pack of cigarettes, tapping one halfway out of the pack before extending it to Face. Sighing with tired resignation, the kid - who looked no older than sixteen - grabbed the cigarette, retrieved his own Zippo from his pants pocket, and dragged hard before leaning back, eyes closed and arms hanging limply at his sides.

"Fucking exhausted," he muttered under his breath, but the complaint wasn't acknowledged by either Boston or the muscular black man standing with arms crossed against the other wall, quietly observing with an unreadable and generally unpleasant expression. He hadn't said a word since arriving, and Murdock couldn't even venture a guess as to what he thought about this middle-of-the-night briefing.

Keeping his head down, the pilot inspected each of them as covertly as he could manage. He didn't have to know their names to know their abilities. They were all parachute qualified, multilingual, and at the top of their class in whatever their specialties. They were also cross-trained in at least one other area - usually two. And chances were pretty good that they were some of the rowdiest soldiers outside of the Navy SEALS. When it came right down to it, Murdock had found the Special Forces soldiers to be ruthless, war-loving sons of bitches, by and large. He loved them for it.

The stereotype cast the Green Berets as undisciplined. Many of them lived up to that reputation. A fair number of the highly publicized embarrassing incidents that the Army had to deal with came directly out of Special Forces - the most recent being the rather dramatic "TWEPing" of a double agent in the Fifth Group. While the term "CIA" was still a forbidden utterance both on and off base, the rumor had circulated quickly that they had been the ones responsible for the orders to "terminate with extreme prejudice." But regardless of who gave the order, ultimately the responsibility fell back on the men who'd carried it out. That was all part of the risk when dealing with the Agency, and the Agency always seemed to like employing Special Forces.

In spite of the extra paperwork they incurred, these "undisciplined" men who would've walked hand in hand with Article 15 had they been stationed stateside were the ones Murdock wanted looking out for him in the midst of no-holds-barred jungle warfare. They were the ones who would not hesitate to kill or be killed - and the former happened more often than the latter. SOG men had a kill ratio of a hundred to one. From what little he had managed to glean in the twenty-four hours since he'd met Colonel John Smith, Murdock had learned that Smith's unit more than doubled that number. Furthermore, in their last six-month active rotation, they'd only lost twelve men - all Yards, none of them Americans. The statistics were shockingly impressive.

"Where's Cipher?" the black man demanded impatiently, his words gruff and clipped. It was just the sort of voice Murdock would've expected from a man of his broad and imposing stature. "He supposed to be here."

"So is Hannibal," Boston pointed out with a smirk.

Murdock never quite got used to the nicknames used by SOG soldiers. The best he could figure it, the nicknames were part of the cut they made with their born identities when they entered SOG. It wasn't any kind of written rule, just standard practice accepted by all of them. Stripped of their identities, and even their names, many of them no longer considered themselves those same people. They were nothing more than soldiers. For many, the fact that they managed to maintain that distinction was probably what enabled them to walk into death without a second thought.

Boston lit a cigarette of his own, and cast a lingering glance at Murdock. "You're the pilot, I'm assuming?"

Murdock had flown for SOG since arriving in Vietnam; he knew this reception. There were several variations - the condescending welcome, the genuine and grateful admiration, the casual disregard - but it all stemmed from the same reality: he was an outsider. Frankly, he wasn't even sure why he'd been invited to their briefing. Here for one mission and gone the next, he would only be a part of the team for a brief while. He was not like them and they knew it. Depending on just what kind of men they were - what kind of men they considered themselves - that could shape their opinion of him in either direction.

Managing to keep his expression completely neutral, Murdock nodded as he answered the unassuming question with a simple, "Yes."

Opening his eyes again, Face gave him the same lingering look. "You know where we're going?" he asked, though his tone suggested he didn't really give a damn. He was definitely the "casual disregard" type.

"Colonel Smith hasn't told me much," he answered safely, keeping his eyes on the boy.

A derisive chuckle, and exchanged glances all around made Murdock shift a bit uncomfortably as Face took another long drag and shut his eyes again with a dry, "Great."

Having seen his share of bad-asses in this war, Murdock had come to expect a certain amount of bravado and arrogance from any SOG soldier. But seeing the role played by such a young and frankly pretty kid struck him as almost comical. If he hadn't been in such deep and serious shit after the fiasco with the Skyraider, Murdock would've sworn this was someone's idea of a joke; at any moment the real soldiers would arrive and laugh hysterically at their parody counterparts.

"Morning, everyone."

Murdock stood instinctively straighter as Colonel Smith, coffee in one hand and a folder in the other, stepped into the small, sandbag-walled room and cast a quick glance around. Bright-eyed and radiating energy and enthusiasm, he shrugged the rifle off his shoulder and set it carefully on the shaky plywood table.

"Morning?" Face challenged, opening his eyes and abruptly sitting forward. "Did you not notice it's the middle of the night?"

Smith cast him a sparkling smile. "Oh, quit bitching, Lieutenant," he said dismissively. "You know you love it."

Murdock almost choked. Good lord, the kid was a lieutenant? He looked like he was fresh out of junior high! Surely, this had to be someone's idea of a joke.

"Bitching?" Face repeated indignantly, sitting up straighter.

Smith didn't seem fazed by the challenge in his subordinate's tone. In fact, it appeared to amuse him. Still smiling broadly, he dropped the folder on the table, took a sip of coffee, and grabbed a rolled map off the shelf against the back wall.

"He means knock it off!" the black man shot, with a tone that could make almost any man snap to attention. But the smile from the colonel and the mock glare from the lieutenant made it clear this sort of exchange was all part and parcel to the camaraderie they shared. They communicated seamlessly, all the way down to matching non-verbal cues.

"Where the hell is Cipher?" Smith demanded, glancing around. As he did, he briefly locked stares with Murdock before moving on. It was just enough to acknowledge his presence, not quite sufficient to make him feel welcome.

"He's probably still asleep," Face grumbled, leaning back again in the perfect snapshot of a moody teenager.

"He didn't get in 'til ten," Boston added.

Suddenly, a wicked smile crossed the young lieutenant's face. "I'll get him up." The dark mischievous tone left his intended method to the imagination.

"I'm here, I'm here..." The voice came from the entrance, boots squishing in the mud for the last few steps before another blonde stepped into the room, this one a more reasonable age with bloodshot eyes and hair a bit longer than regulation permitted.

Murdock recognized him immediately. He'd met Sergeant Jack Harring a few times, including once on a brief R&R in Thailand. Harring had a reputation as one of the "rowdy" bunch, but he was also entertaining. He'd turned the bar of choice for the GIs in Bangkok into a tourist attraction almost overnight with his various antics, like rappelling from the overhanging gallery down to the dance floor or cutting off the power for an impromptu game of hide-and-go-seek.

"You're late," Smith pointed out, not looking up.

"Yeah," Harring grinned, "but you should've seen her."

Murdock could feel the welcome before he heard it - the instant the soldier's eyes came to rest on him. "Howlin' Mad Murdock! Man, what the hell are you doin' here?"

Murdock couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips. "Harringison, good to see you."

"I see you two are acquainted," Colonel Smith observed, glancing up briefly.

"This man, right here," Harringison started, clapping a hand over Murdock's shoulder as he spoke to the colonel, "is the best damn flyboy I ever fucking seen."

Suddenly, Murdock had the eyes of all three soldiers, minus Smith, locked on him. He swallowed hard, but didn't flinch as Harring continued. "I was stationed at Dak Pek right before I got hooked up with you guys."

Murdock lowered his eyes, but kept his chin up. Of all the stories to tell them...

"We came under fire an' he was the first to respond. I hear his voice come over the radio with this god-awful howl." He paused to laugh. "Blows the holy-living-shit out of the whole area around the summit and then he lands right in the fucking center of it all, drops off his guys, and hangs around while they drop down five sorties worth of nothing but fucking napalm. There he is with one of those fucking Green Hornets, dodging RPG-7 rockets with a gunner hanging out of either side 'til the fucking guns run dry."

Murdock's eyes flickered briefly to the amused looks of the blonde lieutenant and the dark-haired man. The enormous black guy didn't look at all impressed.

"He just keeps going back and forth, wipes out half the fucking sappers flying right on over their heads at maybe - maybe - ten feet! I thought for sure he was gonna go down in flames." Harring laughed. "I never seen a chopper fly like that before or since."

"I've never seen a pilot take that kind of risk," Boston said, eyeing him cautiously. "It's a good way to get shot down."

"He comes back every day the next three weeks we were under fire," Harring continued. "Scatter their sorry asses all over wire. And then! The kicker! He gets two days R&R right? Well, he comes out to Dak Pek! Drops into the LZ with his arms full of cigarettes and whiskey and skin magazines."

Murdock smiled tightly, digging his hands into the pockets of his fatigues. He didn't like the attention, but at least it eased away the awkward unfamiliarity of being the odd man out.

"Anyway, you met everyone?" Harring asked, not waiting for a reply. "This is Sergeant BA Baracus." The enormous man made no attempt at a friendly introduction, only scowled. "First Lieutenant Templeton Peck, Face." Murdock received a two fingered, half-assed salute as the boy stood and walked to the table, turning his attention to the map the colonel had laid out. "And First Sergeant Ray Brenner, Boston." The dark-haired man nodded his greeting. "And of course, you know Hannibal."

"Your legend seems to have preceded you, Howlin' Mad Murdock," Boston offered, with more recognition in his voice than Murdock had been expecting.

"Don't believe everything you hear," Murdock answered with a tight smile.

Boston smirked. "Might be better for you if I did." He looked the pilot up and down, quietly scrutinizing. "You really as good as they say you are?"

Murdock stared back with no visible reaction to the challenge. "If I wasn't, would I even be here?"

With a chuckle, Boston nodded and rose to his feet, heading to the table where the others had gathered to look at the map of their intended territory. "Point taken," he offered, leaving sufficient space for Murdock to approach beside him. "Though I guess we'll find out, won't we?"


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

 **1985**

Face had almost made it out of earshot of the car when the phone rang. With an irritated growl, he turned back. He'd had a hell of a time getting out the door this morning, and was already running late. But there weren't many people who'd be calling that phone, especially when Hannibal was up in the mountains of Colorado. Under the circumstances, it was probably better not to ignore the incessant ringing.

Not bothering to sit back down, he reached across the driver's seat, grabbed the handset, and greeted the caller with as much patience as he could manage. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this Joseph Ranger?" an unfamiliar male voice asked.

Immediately, he wished he'd just let it ring. Joseph Ranger was the emergency contact listed for Murdock at the VA, and if he'd taken the time to think about it, he probably could've figured out they'd be the ones calling. "Speaking," he answered distractedly, glancing around in search of his stockbroker's car. It didn't seem to be parked in the normal place and maybe, just maybe, Face was lucky enough to have made it to their usual diner before him, even in spite of all the delays.

"Mr. Ranger," the man began with the utmost professional courtesy, "I'm calling in regards to HM Murdock."

"No, wait," Face interrupted, although clearly, the caller wasn't finished speaking. "Don't tell me. He's missing again. You know, you guys really should look into beefing up security."

The moment of stunned silence on the other end of the phone suggested the man wasn't entirely sure what to say. Internalizing his sigh, Face checked his watch and prayed he would find the words to end this conversation soon and with as little awkwardness as possible.

"Mr. Ranger, I am not with the VA hospital," the man clarified after a moment's pause. "I'm with the FBI."

Face stopped suddenly, thoughts interrupted. "The FBI?" he asked, genuinely surprised and suddenly interested. His stockbroker could wait. "What do you want with Murdock?"

"We need to speak with him regarding a very important matter," the man continued obscurely. "Do you know where we might find him?"

The non-answer was annoying, but expected. Face had an answer ready. "You're asking me?" he challenged, still not sure whether cooperation or confrontation was more likely to extract answers. It was always harder to read people over the phone. "Last time I saw him, he was in a psych ward with a door that locked from the outside."

"According to the nurses here, he didn't make it to breakfast yesterday morning," the caller reported, with the slight hesitation of a man checking his notes.

Actually, Face could remember exactly what Murdock had eaten for breakfast yesterday morning. But that amount of cooperation definitely wouldn't make the answers any more forthcoming. "Well, if I see him, I'll certainly let him know you're looking for him." Face paused briefly, then tried once more. "Can I tell him what this is about?"

"It really is best we speak to him as soon as possible," came the scripted response.

Whatever they wanted, they weren't going to tell Face about it. Although he could've entered into a heated argument about power of attorney and his right to know Murdock's business, he would probably have far better luck satisfying his curiosity by other means.

"Well, luckily he usually comes back on his own," he answered the caller casually. "You have a number where I can call you if I see him?"

He took the number down on a small pad of paper from the glove box, then plopped back down into the driver's seat as he hung up the phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and fixed the slightly windblown hair with a brush of his fingers. What the hell did the FBI want with Murdock? Although he'd had plenty of dealings with law enforcement of all types, Face could honestly say the FBI was relatively unfamiliar to him. He would've thought they were equally unfamiliar to Murdock.

Tapping fingertips against the steering wheel a few times, Face debated his next move. Stockbroker, or FBI. It didn't seem like much of a choice. With a sigh, he closed the door and just for the hell of it, dialed the number to the van. He wasn't surprised when he couldn't get through; the Corvette was a secondary contact and would've only been tried if the van wasn't taking calls. If Hannibal didn't realize they had no reception, he'd figure it out when he didn't receive the obligatory check-in call at 6:00 this evening. Face could deal with that later. The more he learned in the meantime, the better.

The hospital was only a few miles away, and he drove at a leisurely pace, enjoying the morning sunshine through the open top of the Corvette. Finally pulling to a stop in the parking lot, he grabbed a locked briefcase from behind the passenger seat. Inside, he found the identification he was looking for - fake, but convincing at a glance - and set the case aside again.

He was surprised to find the FBI agents still there, roaming around in business suits and with badges displayed. It made him pause for a second, and rethink his approach. He'd only figured he would have to charm a few nurses - something he was quite accustomed to doing - and hadn't really even bothered to come up with a plan as to what he was going to say. He thought well enough off the top of his head and the weekend shift nurses wouldn't recognize the "doctor" who'd just been there two weeks ago to transfer Mr. Murdock to another facility for some neurological testing. He hadn't even bothered to make an appearance yesterday, when Murdock vanished in the middle of the night all on his own.

"Can I help you?" The nurse at the station had already seen him before he had a chance to think through the marginally more complicated story he would have to utilize. He smiled, faking the confidence until it was genuine. No one would ever know the difference.

"I'm looking for an HM Murdock." He definitely had the attention of the suits as he flashed the police badge. "Detective Jeff Aniston, LAPD."

Before she had a chance to answer, an official-looking man in a cheap suit was already approaching, hand outstretched in greeting. "Mark Colburn, FBI."

Face raised a brow questioningly as he shook his hand. "FBI? Don't tell me you guys are involved in this..."

"Might I ask what your business is with Mr. Murdock?" Colburn asked, not reacting in the slightest to the feigned surprise.

"We have reason to believe that he was involved in a shooting on Wednesday night," Face said flatly. "Two people were killed and his fingerprints were found at the scene." By the time they figured out that the story was complete bullshit, Face would be long gone with his answers.

"Wednesday night?" the nurse at the station cried. "Why, that's impossible! Mr. Murdock was right here on Wednesday night!"

"As I understand it, he's been here for the past ten years, ma'am," Face reminded. "So perhaps you can explain to me how his fingerprints turned up at my crime scene. Or where he is now?"

Caught without a comeback, she stammered for a moment, then scowled as she turned away. Face directed his attention back to the FBI agent. "What are you guys here for?" he asked. "I didn't think anybody would've had reason to call in the feds."

"We're following up on an unrelated matter," Colburn offered. "We believe Mr. Murdock could have some information that would help us clear up some questions."

That was about as vague as it could possibly be. Face frowned. "An unrelated matter?" he prodded.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss it, Detective."

Of course he wasn't. Face had seen that coming a mile away. He was getting nowhere and the longer he hung around, the greater chance he had of being caught in the lie. "Well, if I find him before you do, he'll be answering _my_ questions before yours."

Colburn smiled politely. "And if we find him, we'll be sure to send him your way when we're through."

Face left the hospital undeterred, but well aware he needed a different approach. That was okay; he appreciated the challenge every once in a while. Still considering options for his next move, he'd just turned over the ignition when the passenger side door opened. Almost before he had a chance to turn his head, there was an enormous man - the kind who could give BA a run for his money - sitting in the passenger seat.

There was no time for questions. The sandy-haired giant raised a pistol, and it clicked as he pulled back the hammer. "You're Templeton Peck?"

Face laughed nervously, hands raised in a defenseless posture. What was the safest answer to that? "Who's asking?" he questioned, increasingly suspicious that his own plans were once again about to take a backseat to circumstance.

"I want to hire the A-Team," the menacing stranger said gruffly. "And I don't got a lot of time. So you'll forgive me if I don't go through the proper channels but you're going to take me to Hannibal Smith. Right now."

 **1969**

The seat beside Murdock should've been filled with a copilot. Murdock had never flown a UH-1 without a copilot. Or a maintenance engineer, or a gunner for that matter. This was a new experience indeed - one that didn't seem to faze anyone else. A shuffling sound nearly drew his intensely alert stare away from the illuminated gauges, but he was too anxious with the fate of this chopper and all its occupants resting solely on him to give the newcomer a glance.

"You know," Face began, flopping down beside him, "from the death grip you've got on those controls, I'd almost think you were a little nervous."

Murdock didn't acknowledge the commentary. What would be the point? Murdock would've been a fool if he hadn't been at least slightly unnerved. This operation went against everything he'd ever been taught about protocol.

"You're not supposed to be up here, you know," he finally said when silence had stretched too long. "But if you insist on being here, I'm going to have to ask that you leave the drivin' to me. And don't touch anything."

Face gave a smirk, and a quick glance over his shoulder at the rest of the team, huddled around a flashlight in the dark cargo area of the Huey. Murdock had spent the past twenty minutes trying his damnedest to ignore all of them and simply focus on the task at hand.

"You've done a lot of combat drops," Face prodded. "And a few rescues, too. What makes this different?"

"Not real sure what you mean," Murdock replied tightly.

Face was silent for a moment, until Murdock could feel the weight of his stare. Finally resigning himself to the inevitability of conversation, Murdock glanced up briefly and caught the boy's gaze. Shirt half-unbuttoned and drenched in sweat, greasepaint smeared over his face and neck, it was harder to tell him apart from any other soldier who got dropped into this hellhole. But it was still everything Murdock could do to keep himself from asking just how old he was. Boys so young should not be on the battlefield and seeing him here, in a position that took years of training to achieve, was an enigma.

"Hannibal told me you hijacked a Skyraider to answer the call for help from A Shau," Face continued.

"Hannibal?" Murdock raised a brow as he stole a quick glance at the younger man. He could guess to whom Face was referring, but he wondered at the nickname. Not the fact that the colonel had one; every man in SOG did. But it was an unusual title, and blatant in its significance.

Face smirked back at him. "I guess BA was right. You don't even know who you're working for, do you? I thought you had experience with Special Ops."

"I do," Murdock replied flatly. In fact, his unit was known primarily for their work with Special Ops. But he didn't know this team.

After a moment of tense silence, Murdock turned his attention momentarily to the moon and the shadows it cast over the trees below him. There were enemy soldiers down there, armed with weapons of all sorts, eager to prevent their opponents' return home. In a few minutes, he'd drop these soldiers right down into the midst of them, and he may or may not see them again. But that was the nature of the job, and he needed to keep his attention on flying this bird.

"Hey, listen, when this is over, let me buy you a drink," Face offered, catching him slightly off guard.

Murdock didn't have a chance to answer before Colonel Smith yelled from the back, "Face! Get your happy ass back here. You need to be a part of this."

Clapping a hand over Murdock's shoulder, Face jumped up and between the seats, narrowly avoiding the control stick. The instant of panic sent a hot flash through Murdock, but he quickly recovered as he realized the chopper hadn't been sent careening wildly out of control. He could hear them talking and laughing like old friends going out for coffee as he focused intently on the instruments. It was hard to believe those soldiers were about to jump out of a helicopter over enemy territory.

Murdock's eyes faded out of focus for a moment as he listened to Harring, laughing hysterically over some joke he'd not heard from the cockpit. That sound was so foreign to him, so out of place. How could anyone laugh here, now, in this hell? Why would anyone want to? As his gaze swept the emptiness of the trees below, he wondered how many bodies were down there, unrecovered and rotting in the sweltering heat. How many fathers, sons, and brothers. The thought left him with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The Green Berets could laugh. Murdock would never laugh again.

 **1985**

The laughter was loud enough to attract Hannibal's attention from fifteen feet above, where he was leaning on the rail of the large deck. He watched with a quiet smile as the two grown adults in the yard below chased each other like children. With a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other, he was happy just to bask in the warm sun and survey the serenity all around them.

"Man, I don't get it."

Hannibal smiled, casting a quick glance at the man standing beside him with arms folded defensively. "What's the matter, BA?" he asked. "You're beginning to sound jealous."

BA's arms dropped and he took an affronted step back. "Man, I ain't jealous of that fool!"

"He's happy, she's happy." Hannibal gestured at the two of them, then brought his hand up to set the cigar between his teeth. "I'm glad she came along."

"Yeah," BA answered with obvious skepticism. "I give it three weeks and he'll be cryin' all over the place 'cause she found out how crazy he is."

Hannibal shrugged as he considered the possibility with vague interest. "It's already been two months," he mused. BA grumbled, his frown deepening as the two of figures below rolled head over heels down the slight hill, laughing loudly until they came to a stop in an embrace. Hannibal looked away with a smile, giving them some privacy. But they knew they were being watched, and they were keeping it clean. Puppy love, all of it.

"I give it another six months," Hannibal mused, turning his back to the railing and exchanging the cigar for a sip of the whiskey.

A quiet sound of disgust was the only answer he got, quickly followed by the sound of Murdock's voice below. "Hey, Hannibal?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Hannibal saw Murdock regain his footing, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up. Kelly was right behind him, wearing his hat. "Gonna go for a walk down by the lake," Murdock informed.

Hannibal reached into his pocket for one of the walkie-talkies. "Here, take this," he ordered, dropping it down. Murdock caught it easily. "Keep it on, just in case."

"Walk down by the lake" was Murdock's way of saying "don't come looking for me" if last night was any indication. Their "walk" had lasted until just before dawn, and Hannibal had drifted in and out of awareness all night waiting for the sound of the door opening. It wasn't that he didn't trust Murdock, or that he felt particularly threatened out here in the middle of nowhere. And it wasn't that he felt the need to know where Murdock was at every moment; he was a grown man, after all. But danger seemed to follow them around, and there was no reason to give it an opportunity to catch them off guard. Even Face knew to check in every night.

*X*X*X*

Face wanted to try calling the van again, but considering the speed they were travelling down the long, straight stretch, he would have to slow down. Besides, he'd just tried a few hours ago, and the van was definitely out of range up in the mountains. The call had gone through just fine last night, but they hadn't gotten all the way to the cabin yet. If he wanted to talk to them, he'd simply have to wait for them to realize they had no reception and drive closer to town.

Glancing over at his stony-faced passenger, Face evaluated the more immediate problem than the simple communications failure. The brutish man, unshaven and probably sporting twice Face's muscle mass, seemed to alternate between incredibly jumpy and ridiculously over-confident. They'd stopped twice. Either time, Face could have easily gotten away. For that matter, he probably could've gotten away with the car and left this jackass stranded. He chose not to, morbidly curious as to what kind of petition the stranger had for his team. And, of course, the fact that Face was dying to ask Murdock why the FBI was looking for him had a part to play in his decision to drive out to Colorado as well.

"How much further?" the man demanded with a glare, still cradling the gun in his lap.

"You might as well get comfortable," Face replied casually, glancing up at the mid-afternoon sun. "We've still got a long way to go."

The man's attention turned to the flat desert outside. "We should've taken a plane," he muttered under his breath. "Why the hell are we driving?"

Smiling at the patently stupid question, Face gave a little shrug. "Ah, but if we'd taken a plane, you wouldn't be able to hold me at gunpoint."

The passenger turned and glared at him menacingly. "You're a real smartass, you know that?"

Had he not been accustomed to such intimidation tactics from BA, Face might have given the implied threat more than a fleeting disregard.

The sun beat down through the open top of the car, the temperature climbing steadily to uncomfortable levels. Out of the corner of his eye, Face saw the man shift and writhe out of his jacket. Face's gaze immediately fell to the tattoo on his left forearm, and lingered there.

"How many tours?" he asked carefully.

"What?" the man asked gruffly.

Face nodded to the rough, green tattoo on the stranger's forearm. If he had to guess, he would've said the tattoo had been done with a needle and ink from a ballpoint pen: a prison tattoo. "Fuck the NVA?" he read aloud. He gave a slight smirk in answer to the man's scowl. "You can't get much more obvious than that."

"Yeah?" The man was immediately defensive. "What's it to you?"

"You also have a POW flag on the back of your neck," Face pointed out, ignoring the hostility. That one had been done professionally, and retained its colors. "Just curious."

The man's eyes narrowed into slits. But finally, unexpectedly, he answered. "Just one tour."

Face was ready with the question to keep the conversation going. "Who were you with?"

"Does it matter?" the stranger immediately shot.

Backing down silently, Face raised one hand to show he didn't want to fight. The other remained safely on the steering wheel as they shot through the glaring desert at nearly 130 miles-per-hour. The defensive answer piqued his curiosity. Although it wasn't at all uncommon to meet Vietnam vets with a grudge, the man undoubtedly knew he was in like company. There was no way in hell he'd sought them out without knowing who they were and where they'd come from. Especially if he'd served in 'Nam himself. Even on guard against painful memories, there was a certain understanding that existed between veterans: they'd all been through it and they got through it together. When you couldn't tell who might be enemy, you at least knew that an American soldier was an ally. At the moment, Face was being regarded more like the enemy. He was dying to know why.

Patiently, he waited until the passenger turned to glare out the window again, stealing a few glances at him between watching the road.

"You still in?" Face tried again.

The answer was instant, clipped, and ice cold. "No."

Smiling at the man who reminded him more and more of BA with every passing minute, Face's tone was light as he replied. "Well, I guess we have something in common after all."

The man was quiet, glaring out the window, and Face sighed. It was like talking to a brick wall. Finally giving up, Face's shoulders slumped as he set both hands on the steering wheel and focused on the mountains in the distance. Not expecting to hear anything more, he was caught off guard when the man suddenly spoke again. "We got more in common than you think."

Face raised a brow, processing slowly and hazarding a few quick glances in the man's direction. Noting the attention, the man sighed loudly. In one quick motion, he jerked the sleeve of his shirt up to his shoulder, revealing the familiar blue insignia with the gold sword and lightning bolts. Face's eyes widened just slightly.

"Special Forces," he thought out loud. He looked again at the writing above and beneath it. "A-503, Nha Trang. That's Mike Force, isn't it?"

This time, it was the stranger's turn to be surprised. "Very good, Lieutenant," he managed. "I'm surprised you know that."

"I'm surprised to see it tattooed on your arm," Face answered instantly and without thought. He wasn't sure why the simple statement was perceived as a threat, but there was no mistaking the reception as the man growled under his breath. He glared out the windshield, tightening his hand around the grip of the gun sitting in his lap.

"Just shut up and drive," he ordered icily.

Face set his eyes firmly on the road ahead of him, and drove on in silence, mind racing. The man wanted something, and there was a good chance it would be completely unrelated to the war. Vietnam was ancient history now - or at least people liked to pretend it was. Sooner or later, Face would find out what this was all about. He was willing to wait. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gone for a very long drive in a very quiet vehicle.


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

 **1985**

Hannibal didn't realize the phone was out of service until he began to wonder why they hadn't received the 6:00 call.

"We must be just outta range," BA said. "It worked last night an' we were only a few miles down the road when he called."

"More like twenty," Hannibal corrected, hanging up the useless phone. "And the last gas station we passed was a lot farther than that."

"It's a long drive just to make a phone call," BA observed. "He ain't gonna answer anyway. It's Saturday night."

"I'll get a hold of him," Hannibal stated confidently. If he wasn't near the 'Vette, Hannibal had the number to the hotel where he was staying. And if he wasn't there, he'd at least have left a time and date of check in with the front desk. This pattern had been well established years ago.

BA shook his head slightly. "Just be careful you don't make us run outta gas, man," he warned as Hannibal reached into his pocket for the keys. "Remember, we gotta be able to get to a gas station when we leave here tomorrow night. And it's a long way."

Hannibal shoved the key into the ignition, but didn't have a chance to turn the engine over before a flash of white down the long, winding driveway caught his eye. BA turned to look as Hannibal stood, hanging out the side of the van for extra height as the white Corvette inched its way slowly over the rough, gravel driveway toward the house. Surprised, but no less amused, Hannibal smiled as it pulled to a stop before the last big potholes, and Face stepped out of the driver's seat.

"I thought you weren't coming, Lieutenant," Hannibal greeted brightly.

Face glared at him before hopping over the mud puddle in the middle of the walkway. "Not my bright idea."

That would mean it was the bright idea of the man sitting in the passenger seat. BA had seen him too, just an outline in the quickly dimming evening light. The unfamiliar presence made them both frown. Who was that? It definitely wasn't anyone they knew.

"I tried calling you," Face started, kicking the mud off of his shoes every other step. "You were out of range."

"Yeah, I was just about to go find a pay phone." Hannibal took his eyes off the figure in the car and looked down at Face. "Who's your friend?"

"I'm not so sure he's a friend." Very slowly, the man stepped out of the side of the car. BA instantly stood a little straighter. The guy was probably 250 pounds of pure muscle - that much was evident even at a distance. Face glanced back, over his shoulder, rocking on his heels. "He wants to talk to you. And just so you know, he's got a Colt .45."

Hannibal nodded, and dropped down to the ground. "Doesn't sound too friendly to me."

He kept the door open, ready to reach for the M-16 next to the driver's seat if the need should arise. As the dim light from the setting sun caught the glint from the weapon in the stranger's hand, Hannibal felt the need had arisen. He grabbed the rifle and calmly propped it on the open window. But the intruder didn't lift his gun. In fact, he reached behind him and tucked it into his belt.

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "State your business, friend."

"You Colonel John Smith?" the man called back, his tone unreadable.

"That's me," Hannibal answered coolly. "Who are you?"

As he stepped out of the shadows and into the dim evening light, Hannibal felt the change in BA's stance like a physical sensation. "Alan?" BA exclaimed, as if on cue. "Alan Parker, that _you_?"

"BA Baracus," the newcomer returned with a smile. "I was hoping I'd get to see you."

Hannibal and Face exchanged glances, and Face shrugged. "Guess he has a name now," he sighed. "Ten hours of driving and I couldn't get one out of him."

Hannibal lowered the gun out of the window as BA and Alan slapped each other's shoulders in a friendly greeting. "It only took you ten hours to get here from LA?" he asked, amused.

"He's from the Nha Trang Mike Force," Face continued quietly, ignoring Hannibal's curiosity in favor of more important topics. "He's got it tattooed on his arm. And I suspect he was a POW, but I'm not sure."

Hannibal didn't take his eyes off the newcomer. "What makes you say that?"

"Gut feeling," Face answered uncomfortably, then quickly changed his tone as he asked more loudly, "Where's Murdock?"

He glanced around the yard and at the cabin, where all the lights were still off. "Oh, he's... around," Hannibal replied, watching the two men exchange greetings and laughter. The innocent question from Face was much more serious than he realized, Hannibal was sure. If Face had recognized Alan Parker the way Hannibal did, he would've realized the evening was about to get much more interesting.

 **1969**

Dropping out of a Huey five hundred yards from a camp swarming with NVA was not what Murdock would have called a clandestine drop. It made his skin crawl to be hovering this close to all those RPG launchers, even if they weren't firing yet. The colonel had assured him they would only need fifteen minutes on the ground. Although Murdock wasn't sure what could be accomplished in fifteen minutes, he didn't argue. He was just along for the ride.

Pulling back as the team hit the jungle floor, Murdock circled wide. Fifteen minutes wasn't long enough to return to the base and he had to stay close enough to be within range of the portable radio they carried. He also had to make sure he was far enough up in the air to avoid getting shot out of the sky.

The lack of chatter on the radio seemed distinctly wrong. He was not communicating with Covey overhead, since he wasn't there, or the target camp, since it was overrun, or even the base that had sent him, since the mission they were supposedly carrying out was very different from what they were actually doing. Flying off the radar and out of contact with anyone who'd know where to find their bodies was a new and almost terrifying experience.

For the first time in a long time, stranded in the sky without even a crew to talk to, Murdock felt truly alone. Privacy was such a rarity in war, with other soldiers wandering in and out of just about any room at any time. He'd trained himself to think of it as safe, to appreciate the presence of nearby reinforcements should anything threatening come barreling his way. It made his current predicament - where the danger was very real, near, and known - exceptionally unnerving.

His mind wandered as he hovered, watching for the muzzle flares and tracer rounds of enemy fire. So far, there were none. Seven minutes, and not a flash. The enemy had to know they were there; the Huey wasn't exactly quiet and they'd practically knocked on the door of the camp. He frowned deeply as he considered the enemy, ready and waiting for Smith's team to show up. What kind of an insane strategy would incorporate that kind of risk? This was by far the wildest operation he'd ever pulled. And in only fifteen minutes? Smith had to be out of his goddamn mind.

The first muzzle flashes made Murdock's shoulders tense. Something always happened in his brain when he saw that. Something cold and unfeeling took over, mentally preparing him for the bloody horror of what he was about to witness. He'd seen enough death in the back of his chopper to last a lifetime, and it never got easier. The haunting voices echoed in his head even over the rattling of the chopper's blades. Some nineteen-year-old kids cried out to their God as they bled out in pain and hopeless agony. Most of them called for their mothers.

Eleven minutes.

It was still so strange to be in this chopper alone. Eerie, even. There should be a copilot. There should be a maintenance engineer - the "owner" of the Huey who did all its repairs and flew in it every time it left the ground. There should be a gunner - preferably two, one on each side. Instead, there was only him, alone in the ink-black sky over the jungle trees. There was nothing to hear except the chopper blades, nothing to see except the glowing red instruments on the dash and the red and green tracers shooting at each other in the camp a few hundred yards away. For every green streak, there were fifty red. It made Murdock anxious, in spite of himself. His team was vastly outnumbered down there.

He could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck, soaking his collar. A few more deep, slow breaths of heavy, saturated air. The fifteen-minute mark had come and gone. What were the chances of this plan succeeding? He didn't really know enough about it to even guess. He only knew the part he had to play - drop off and pick up, and keep his mouth shut about it all. Hopefully, there would be more to pick up than he'd dropped off and not less. They were going in there for POWs, after all...

His thoughts trailed off, mind fading out of focus. Fifteen MIA. Two Americans. One of them was from the Mike Force. His chest tightened as he shut his eyes.

"RT Cannon to Howlin' Mad."

The interruption startled him, and he brushed his leaking eyes roughly, then cleared his throat before answering. "Howlin' Mad, ready in the wings. SITREP?"

The unit on the ground - the voice sounded like Harring's, but he couldn't be sure - ignored his request for a situation report. "How about some fireworks to liven up the party?"

Fireworks? Without a gunner? What the hell was he supposed to do - shoot out of the cockpit while flying? "What kind of fireworks did you have in mind, Cannon?" he asked, stunned and confused.

"The kind that'll give us some relief from that north wall."

Murdock's jaw dropped. They knew he was the only one up here. What was he supposed to do without a gunner? He glanced to the side and in the dim light from the dash instruments he saw that at some point, someone - had to be Peck - had laid out several grenades well within his grasp. Murdock's eyes grew wider. Was he kidding?

"Are you kidding?" he laughed tensely.

"Anytime you're ready, Howlin' Mad! Over!"

He wasn't kidding.

It would violate every rule in the book. Not only was he without a co-pilot, he'd be flying one-handed while dropping grenades with the other and taking his eyes off of the instruments to make sure he didn't blow up the wrong thing. In the dark! How would he even pull the pins? Was this really what they were asking him to do? Could he even physically do it? Who the hell were these guys?

The really funny thing was, they were not only asking him to do it, they expected him to comply. They'd staked their lives on his ability to do so. Murdock felt his deep, concerned frown quirk up into a slight smile. Talk about a challenge. He took a deep breath, and his voice was even and confident when he answered again. "10-4, A-Team. Be there in a minute. Over."

 **1985**

Eyes closed and sitting back against the rough bark of a fallen tree, Murdock hadn't been expecting to hear the sound of Hannibal's voice cackling over the walkie-talkie. It took him a moment to reorient and fumble through his jacket pockets until he found the device.

"Murdock, you there?"

He glanced briefly at the woman resting beside him in the quickly dimming light, her head on his shoulder. Not sure if she was actually asleep or just relaxed and contented, he resolved not to disturb her. "Yeah, Colonel?" he replied quietly.

"Face is here."

A burst of energy shot through him. Something wrong? Something very right? Why would Face come here after making it so clear he had no desire to join them this weekend? Murdock shifted and Kelly sat up straight, blinking at the world around her.

"Be there in a minute," he promised, vaulting to his feet.

Kelly rubbed her eyes with one hand, stretching the other over her head as the radio fell silent. Shoving it back into his pocket, Murdock offered an outstretched palm. With a smile, she placed her fingers against his and he pulled her up easily.

She struggled a bit to keep up as he bounded over the uneven ground towards the cabin. Preoccupied with the possibilities - some of them good, some bad - for Face's unexpected arrival, Murdock barely noticed her difficulty. The sound of her voice registered, vaguely, but he couldn't really make out words. Something had to be wrong, but Hannibal hadn't sounded concerned. Maybe it was just a minor problem, easily fixed. What kind of minor problem would drag Face out into the wilderness?

As they approached the cabin, he saw Hannibal first, waiting out on the porch. Uh oh, something _was_ wrong, and Hannibal was out here to head him off before he walked right into it. Keeping his concerns veiled, Murdock's tone remained light and carefree. "Everything okay, Colonel?"

"More or less," came the response, and Murdock immediately knew it was less and not more. Suddenly, he felt even more uneasy.

Pausing halfway up the steps, he lowered his hand to the small of Kelly's back. "Why don't you go on inside," he said gently, smiling as he guided her on ahead.

"Okay." She smiled politely at Hannibal as she passed and disappeared through the screen door. It clacked closed behind her and Murdock's smile faded immediately into a look of concern. "What's wrong?" The lightness was gone from his voice as soon as Kelly passed out of earshot.

"There's someone here to see you," Hannibal replied, not wasting words.

Murdock raised a brow. Clearly, he didn't mean Face. But that would've been Murdock's only guess. "To see _me_?" he asked, confused. "Who? Why?"

"To be clear, he says he's here to hire us," Hannibal reconsidered. "But I told him we wouldn't discuss business until you got here, and unless you agreed to it."

Murdock shook his head, even more confused. Since when did he have the final say on a job? And who would come all the way out here? Overwhelmed with questions, Murdock wasn't sure what to say. "Okay...?" he offered weakly.

If Hannibal had intended to say anything more - and it looked like he did - he thought better of it before the words actually formed. After a brief pause, he turned and led the way into the cabin. Murdock followed a step behind, mentally preparing himself for anything.

 _Almost_ anything.

His eyes came to rest on the man - the one character out of place in this scene - almost immediately. His mind registered what he was seeing a half-second later. "Alan?" He couldn't have stopped the exclamation if he'd tried, but immediately cursed himself for it as the man turned. Their eyes locked, the mountain of a man sporting features rougher and more scarred than Murdock remembered, but still painfully familiar after so many years.

Shifting a bit uneasily, the man offered a tight smile before speaking in a gravelly voice that sent a chill down Murdock's spine. "Hey, Mark."

"Mark?" BA exclaimed, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth.

Murdock didn't look at BA. He couldn't pry his saucer-wide eyes away from the giant standing near the fireplace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hannibal lean against the back of the sofa, watching the scene unfold carefully, warily. On his other side, Face was looking back and forth between the two men with growing anticipation and concern.

Finally, after a tense moment of silence, Face finally broke it with a quiet, uneasy chuckle. "Oh, this is going to be good."

 **1969**

Maneuvering the helicopter into position was the easy part. Once there, Murdock lost all perception of time. He wasn't aware of passing minutes or even the deafening sound of the chopper as he made creative use of a bandana to control both sticks with one hand, only just keeping the damned thing hovering. Nothing fazed him except the juggling act to keep the bird in the air, the flare of rockets aimed in his direction and the fuckers on the ground he was blasting the hell out of. He'd never tried dropping grenades out the side of a chopper while flying. It was a neat trick!

He'd heard the SOG Green Berets wrapped their grenade pins in tape so that they could pull them with their teeth if they were wounded in one arm. He now found that to be true. Using his teeth and the hand not occupied with the controls to drop grenades right into the center of the huddled groups of NVA in the camp, he did his best to keep the chopper steady - a feat that was almost impossible. As much fun as the challenge was, he sure as hell wouldn't have wanted to attempt it with anyone else in the aircraft. He almost lost control twice, to say nothing of the danger from the RPG fire coming up from the camp. In any case, he didn't imagine he'd ever get to do anything like this again. It went against so many regulations, he wouldn't even be able to tell anyone about it without running the risk of losing his wings.

The fires he'd started made the confusion on the ground a little bit more visible. Apparently, they'd never seen grenades dropped from a helicopter either. The team was silent, at least on the radio. The tracers from AK-47s below suggested they were still engaged. The commie bastards were shooting up at him, too. The familiar _ping!_ of bullets through the metal would've concerned him more if he'd had people in the back. But as it was, unless they hit him or one of the necessary components to keeping the chopper in the air, he could care less how many bullets they wasted on this bird. She'd survive.

"A-Team to Howlin' Mad." He was ready for the voice this time. With a smile on his face at the pure chaos that had erupted below, he took the radio. A flash directly ahead forced him to bank right so fast he nearly lost control again. These choppers weren't made for maneuvers like this.

"Howlin' Mad on the radio. State your claim, A-Team."

"Water's nice and hot." His mood, already elevated by the adrenaline and, frankly, the fun he was having, rose even more. Hot water was better than cold - it meant they had found living prisoners. It was also better than warm, which would've meant that the prisoners were alive but too injured to aid in their own escape.

"How many you got, A-Team?" It suddenly occurred to him that he was going to have to not only land in an enemy camp but lift off and fly in this mess while loaded. Maybe even overloaded.

"Ten standing, two wounded."

He winced. That was pushing it - especially with the rockets coming up at him.

"Roger that," he answered, careful not to let any of the concern filter into his voice. "Let's see some of them pretty red flares on the LZ. Then get ready to run 'cause I'll be comin' in fast."

Seconds later, a flash of red went up into the sky. It illuminated the open area on the southwest side of the camp for just long enough to imprint the image in Murdock's mind. Armed with that knowledge, he positioned the chopper, and began a descent that would've been called "recklessly fast" under any circumstances. It startled the radio operator below.

"LZ is red, Howlin' Mad! Repeat, LZ is red!"

If Murdock hadn't figured out already that the landing zone was under fire, there wasn't much he could do about it now. "No shit?" He grinned as he pulled up just short of the point of no return. Another two seconds at the current rate of decent and he'd be landing in a spectacular crash. "Red's always been my favorite color."

The noise of the rotor was deafening. He let it cloud his thoughts, and focused entirely on the gauges in front of him. M-16 fire echoed from the cargo area, and a few more sharp pings made Murdock's grip flex and tighten on the control arm. Pure adrenaline raced through his veins as he counted off the longest forty-three seconds of his life before he heard the yell. "Go! Go!"

He pulled the chopper up hard, accounting for the difference in the way she handled now that she was loaded. The loud, adrenaline-soaked victory cries from the back were music to his ears as he exchanged altitude for speed and headed off toward the base.

"That was fuckin' amazing, man! Who the hell are you guys?"

The chatter of Vietnamese and half-coherent English was too much for him to decipher all at once.

"God, look at you! You're fuckin' bleedin' all over!"

Murdock winced as he caught that statement and switched to the intercom. "Aw, come on, guys, don't you be bleedin' in my chopper..."

It was a second later that Harring appeared beside him, grabbed his head in both hands and planted a huge, exaggerated kiss on his cheek. "I love you, man!"

Murdock couldn't help but smile as he pulled away. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Tryin' to fly here." Harring could not possibly know how difficult it was to keep this bird in the air with so many people in it. It would've been difficult even in broad daylight, and it was even harder in the dark.

There were no words for the thoughts in Murdock's head - a thousand voices all at once. Elated by the success and confused as to how it had happened, he let the rush come. Beneath it all was the slowly building awareness that thirteen men in this chopper meant they'd picked up seven on the ground. "Hey, Colonel?" he called back, eyes still on the controls that were his only guide in the deep darkness all around him.

A moment later, Smith appeared beside him. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

Murdock did a double take at the sheer amount of blood covering the older man. Some of it was transfer - a man he'd carried, perhaps. He'd said they had two wounded. But some of it was spatter. He'd killed at least a couple of those bastards up close and personal.

Good.

"You said seven," he pointed out. "What about the others?"

"At least three were killed," Smith informed him, with the same neutrality as if he was reporting the weather. "The others weren't there."

"Where's Parker?"

Smith paused for a long moment, and Murdock dared to take his eyes away from the controls for long enough to exchange a quick glance with him. "Alan Parker," he repeated. "He's the reason we were going in there, right?"

Clearly, Smith was surprised that he'd known anything about the significance of this rescue, particularly when he'd left Parker's name out of the team briefing. Murdock hoped he would just answer the question.

"Alan Parker is dead," Smith finally replied.

Murdock's heart sank, the smile melting from his face. Hearing those words felt like a physical blow to the chest. His breath caught, and he gripped the controls tighter, forcing his breathing to remain slow and even and his mind to remain on the task at hand. No matter what he was thinking, no matter what he was feeling, he had to keep this bird in the air.

But even with his eyes firmly fixed on the flight instruments, the words kept echoing in his mind. Alan Parker was dead. He'd died in Vietnam, in the attack on A Shau. Alan Parker was dead and he would never be going home.

Murdock's only brother was dead.


	6. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 **1969**

It had taken Hannibal some time to find Lieutenant Murdock. He'd disappeared almost as soon as they touched down in Pleiku, even before debriefing. Not wanting to cause trouble for the young pilot, Smith put the others on hold while he went to find him. Besides, the rest of his team was just as covered in blood and gore as he was, and they would do well to clean up before presenting themselves to Davids.

"You okay, Lieutenant?" Hannibal asked, shrugging his weapon off his shoulder as he approached.

Murdock was sitting on the ground, his back against the corrugated steel of the hangar with a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. The long grey ashes on the end indicated just how long it had been since the young pilot had moved. His gaze lingered on the Skyraider under the dim circles of light, prepped with napalm and rockets, but the emptiness in his eyes made Hannibal wonder if he even saw it.

As Hannibal sat down beside him, Murdock glanced up. "No offense, Colonel," he said flatly, "but you really need to shower."

Hannibal grinned. "Yeah, I know." He felt his pockets, and realized that the cigar he always kept in his breast pocket had been broken - probably that last time he'd had to duck. Still, it was worth it just for the few minutes that it would last.

He was less successful finding his lighter, but before he had a chance to ask, Murdock had offered his own. "Thanks."

Hunched over his knees with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, the man looked remarkably like a lost little kid. Maybe it was the faraway look in his eyes. It wasn't the glazed look of a man who'd seen too much blood and could no longer cope; that look was far more distinct. It was the look of a man who was realizing the sheer insignificance of life, and having a hard time accepting it.

"So you wanna tell me what you know about Parker?" Hannibal asked.

For a long moment, Murdock was still. Then, slowly, he sat up and reached into his breast pocket. Without a word, he withdrew a folded Polaroid picture and handed it over. The muscular man was clearly a soldier, and to his left was a Vietnamese woman, arms hanging around his neck, kissing his cheek. The worn crease down the center of the photo told something of its age, and how often it had been unfolded.

"My brother," Murdock said quietly. "Alan Parker."

Hannibal stared at the photo, studying it carefully, then handed it back. "I'm sorry," he offered, sincerely. He'd known there was more to the Skyraider story than met the eye, but the connection wasn't obvious when Murdock and Parker didn't share a last name.

"You always know it could happen, right?" The distance in the pilot's voice was almost eerie. "You just hope... And you don't think about how you're gon' deal with it when it does happen."

Hannibal looked away.

"I guess it wouldn't even be so bad if I just... had a body. You know? Something to..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"He's gone, Lieutenant," Hannibal stated, a simple matter of fact. "And there's nothing you can do about it. Settle that for yourself right now, or the guilt will eat you alive."

Murdock turned his head. His distant eyes were glistening, but the clenched jaw made it clear that he was a man who refused to break down and cry. That was good, at least. Hannibal had never been comfortable dealing with that sort of thing. "We've all lost people in this goddamn bloody war," the colonel continued, avoiding eye contact in favor of studying his cigar. "There's no way around that. You just keep going. Keep doing what you have to do."

"You know, it's funny..." Murdock laughed, but it was without humor. Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal saw the man lean back until his wrists were on his knees. Staring out the open side wall of the hangar, he watched a helicopter lift off the ground against the backdrop of early-morning sunrise. "I didn't have to come here. But I guess I'm crazy 'cause I actually wanted to. I was stationed for a while in the States after my first rotation in Thailand..." He laughed, and his eyes slid closed as he shook his head. "Worst six months of my life. Never been so goddamn bored. Found out they needed chopper pilots in 'Nam and put in my paperwork that very same day. I didn't care what they put me in to fly, I just couldn't wait to get over here, to see some action. But right now, maybe the first time in my entire life..." He trailed off, and Hannibal glanced at him. Their eyes locked as the younger man continued in a whisper. "I just wanna go home."

It was a very real sympathy that Smith felt for the man all of a sudden - an unusual feeling. Death was a part of life out here, and none of them ever really expected to live through the day. None of them really knew if their friends and teammates would come back alive when they crossed the wire. Even within his own team, Smith was careful to gauge the emotional distance that had to - by necessity - remain in place. They worked together, they thought as one. But they would have to do that even when they were missing a part of the team. Even when that part of the team was never coming back. It had happened before. It would happen again.

"How short are you?" he asked quietly.

Murdock shook his head, turning back to watch as the chopper headed off in the general direction of Saigon. "I just extended my tour. I'm in 'til November at least." He dropped the forgotten cigarette in the dirt and squished it with the heel of his boot. "That's assuming they don't court martial me. Still don't know how that's all gonna work out."

Smith nodded slowly, taking another hit off the cigar. "Your record is... impressive," he observed. "And with your performance tonight... I never knew such a heavy chopper could move like that."

Murdock nodded, but didn't otherwise reply.

"My men like you," Smith continued. "Even Face, although he won't say it. You're certainly the most daring chopper pilot I've flown with since I've been here."

"What are you getting at, Colonel?" Murdock asked disinterestedly. He'd learned a long time ago to beware of flattery. Particularly when it came from a superior officer.

Hannibal turned and studied him for a long moment. "I can't send you home, Lieutenant. But I may be able to arrange a place for you on this team."

Murdock blinked in surprise, attention sharpening. "On an A-Team?" He shook his head, confused. "I'm not Special Forces, Colonel. I'm not even Army."

Hannibal paused for a moment before answering. "Do you know why I went through the trouble of requesting you, specifically, for this assignment?"

The briefest of pauses, and a halfhearted shrug, preceded Murdock's answer. "I figured it had something to do with the Skyraider thing."

"Initially," Hannibal admitted with a nod. "But more importantly, you were able to look me straight in the eye and say you were the best. And you believed it."

Murdock straightened a little before he answered with complete confidence, "Still do, Sir."

"Then you'll understand what I'm saying when I tell you that my team is the best damn SOG unit Special Forces has ever seen. We're not just an A-Team, Lieutenant. We're _the_ A-Team."

Murdock smirked as he recognized an arrogance that rivaled his own. "So what do you want me for?" he asked, still confused.

"I want a pilot I can rely on," Hannibal explained. "For drops and extractions, mostly. But also for transport and air support and anything else we need. And I'm going to request that you be assigned to us on a more permanent basis. After we arrange to have the charges on your court martial dropped."

Murdock studied him for a moment, then nodded, forcing a smile. "If you can swing it, Colonel, I'll be there."

"Oh, I don't think it'll be too hard," Smith grinned. "I can be pretty persuasive."

Looking away again, Murdock sighed with the resignation of a man unwilling to get his hopes too high, who simply had nothing better to do than wait and see. Still keenly aware of the loss preoccupying the pilot's mind, Hannibal afforded a moment of respectful silence for Alan Parker, offered a sympathetic smile, and stood, heading for a much-needed shower.

 **1985**

Standing at the fireplace, Alan drew in a breath and shifted anxiously before speaking in the gentlest tone a man of his stature could manage. "You look good, Mark."

"Don't call me that!" Murdock cried as an instinctive reaction, something he'd neither expected nor knew how to control, forced him to cover his ears and close his eyes. Head down and blocking out the world, his thoughts raced as he struggled to cope with an overload of information. It was a sensation that bordered on pain.

"Don't call me that," he said again - more of an order, this time, than a cry of desperation. He forced himself to look up as he plowed through the next words. "What are you doing here? Why are you here? How did you get here? You're not real."

Alan laughed briefly, and when he continued, the anxiety was gone from his tone. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you weren't happy to see me."

"What do you want!"

Murdock was not laughing. Closing his eyes, he resisted the urge to cover his ears again. _Hear no evil... see no evil... speak no evil..._ Evil tricks his mind was playing on him. He was seeing things, hearing things. This wasn't real. God damn those drugs the doctors put in his head and the ghosts they conjured up. God damn the confusion between reality and a bad dream. He was hallucinating. What had triggered it? He couldn't possibly be seeing what he was seeing. The man standing before him had been dead for eighteen years...

Breathing as deeply as possible, Murdock struggled not to hyperventilate. "You need to go away," he declared, eyes still shut tight. When he opened them, the ghost would be gone. "You need to go away because you're not really real."

"Fool, what're you talkin' about?" BA demanded.

Face was appropriately concerned. "Murdock, are you okay?"

Ever the voice of calm control and reason, Hannibal gave him a direction. "Why don't you have a seat, Murdock?"

Voices. Voices swirling in his head where he couldn't separate them out.

"You're not there," he repeated, over and over again. "You're dead. You're not real."

"Man, you crazy," BA snapped, as if he didn't already know that.

But when Murdock opened his eyes again, the man was still there, staring at him with a confused look. He was still real, or at least appeared real. Did they see him? Did they see what Murdock saw? Did they _know_ what he saw? His gaze flickered briefly to Hannibal. He would know what he was seeing. But Hannibal's expression reflected only concern for the display Murdock was unable to control.

"What do you want?" Murdock demanded, looking back at the man. But it sounded more like a plea in his own ears.

Hannibal must have seen how close he was to completely losing his grip on reality. "Murdock, sit down." This time, it was an order.

"What do you want?" he gasped again. A hand on his arm - Hannibal's - made him flinch, but he didn't strike out. He just let it guide him to a nearby chair. "What are you doing here? How did you get here?"

"How about we start with the basics," Face cut in. He looked at Alan. "For the benefit of the rest of us, who the hell are you?"

Face could see him too. If Face could see Murdock's hallucination, maybe he was simply dreaming. Maybe this was all a dream. Where had he fallen asleep? He shut his eyes hard again and concentrated on waking up. _Wake up, wake up, wake up... You're asleep in your own bed! Wake up!_

He didn't wake up.

"My name is Alan Parker." Murdock's eyes opened slowly, but remained unfocused as he stared right through the man still standing near the fireplace. "And I'm your friend's brother."

"Brother?" The surprise in Face's voice was perfectly evident.

"Murdock ain't got no brother!" BA said firmly. "An' if he did, it wouldn't be _you_!"

"He's telling the truth, BA." All eyes - except Murdock's - turned to Hannibal as he spoke, voice flat and even. Murdock's gaze remained on Alan, much older and more scarred than eighteen years ago, but still undeniably him. Very slowly, Murdock was beginning to realize the hallucination was real; he really _was_ standing there.

"You never said anything about no brother!" BA's surprise was aimed directly at Murdock now, and he shrank back instinctively. Handling BA's over-the-top displays of abrasive confrontation had become second nature over the years, but right now, it was too much.

"What's going on?" He almost didn't recognize the female voice that suddenly entered the room. As he tried to place it, Murdock found himself struggling to figure out the entire world around him. _Kelly..._ He wasn't hallucinating. This was for real. "Whose brother?"

"Murdock's," Hannibal answered conversationally. "Come have a seat. We're just getting started."

"You have a brother?" Kelly asked, confused.

Out of the corner of his eye, Murdock saw her approach. But he didn't look at her. Couldn't deal with her right now either. Couldn't deal with any of this. He needed to get away. He needed to sort through the millions of simultaneous thoughts, none of which made any sense at all.

"Murdock, if you had a brother," Face started cautiously, "how come you never said anything about it?"

Far from accusatory, he sounded curious, maybe even concerned. Murdock wanted to answer, but he didn't have words.

Thank God Hannibal had a response ready. " _Had_ a brother," he emphasized. He then turned to Alan. "I was under the impression you were killed in A Shau."

"A Shau?" Face's eyes widened a little.

"What's A Shau?" Kelly asked quietly.

Murdock shut his eyes. "It was a camp in Vietnam," he explained, his own voice just as quiet and unassuming as hers. Maybe if he could explain this to her, he could manage to wrap his own mind around it. Maybe he could even process it, one small piece at a time. "It got attacked and... not everyone got out."

"You were at that camp?" Kelly questioned, looking up at Alan.

"Sort of," he answered, shifting a bit uncomfortably. "I wasn't stationed there. I was with a group of soldiers that went there to defend it."

"That's right, you went into the Mike Force," BA recalled. "I remember that. We never thought we'd see you again."

"What's the Mike Force?" Kelly bit her lip as she glanced at Murdock.

"They were a countrywide reaction force based in Nha Trang," Hannibal answered for him, simplifying the explanation to avoid a tangent. "A division of 5th Special Forces - same as us, but with a different focus. Whenever one of the A-camps got into trouble, a Mike Force was sent in to help them out. A Shau was one of those camps."

"They knew they were going to get hit," Alan began quietly. "The camp was pretty well cut off. An easy target. Far from any supporting artillery and staffed with a few hundred CIDG and a handful of Americans."

"CIDG?" Kelly asked when he paused.

"C-I-D-G," Face spelled it out for her. "Stands for Civilian Irregular Defense Group."

"Vietnamese soldiers," Murdock offered, struggling to put his thoughts together into some kind of coherent order. "Most of the ones we worked with were from minority groups, like tribes up in the mountains."

"The LLDB had, er - " Alan glanced at Kelly and gave a slight smirk. "The Vietnamese Special Forces had abandoned the only other two camps out there a few months earlier. So A Shau was the only one left blocking the Ho Chi Minh trail. The NVA - the bad guys from the north - had been moving in for quite a while when we got the call. We packed that place full, and armed ourselves to the teeth. But I found out later they still outnumbered us six to one, and a whole bunch of the fuckin' CIDG were gonna turn on us."

Murdock opened his eyes again and looked up at the man. The unwelcome trip down memory lane helped him to focus, to pull through the shock and confusion. As fast as it drained, the emptiness was filled with an unfamiliar and surprisingly potent anger. How dare he show up here, now, after all this time! How dare he be alive and breathing after so many years of being dead!

"How 'bout we get to the part where you got out alive," Murdock demanded, his voice as tight as the muscles in his shoulders.

"General Carl Davids sent a team after me," Alan began. Face and Hannibal exchanged long glances, but Murdock remained stoic and centered on Alan. "He sold his balls to the Agency almost at the start of the war, and I was the only one still alive from that first mission he ordered to keep them from tightening their grip. So he kinda needed me back." Alan shifted uncomfortably. "I was there when the team came. I heard the explosion when they took the door off the holding cell."

"Everyone who came out of that camp said you were dead," Hannibal informed flatly.

"I'm sure they thought I was," Alan answered. "I'd been in -" He halted suddenly and a shadow passed over his eyes before he looked away, jaw set. "- interrogation for three days. They'd already killed two of us in that time."

Face and Hannibal exchanged glances again, but didn't speak. Alan continued after a brief pause. "After that, they sent me to Son Tay."

Murdock's eyes closed. Shit...

"Then Dong Hoi when Son Tay flooded," Alan continued. "Then Hoa Lo in Hanoi after Operation Ivory Coast."

Murdock opened his eyes again and stared directly at Alan. "You weren't at Hoa Lo when they released their prisoners," he stated confidently. "I checked."

"No, I wasn't," Alan confirmed. "During the transport from Dong Hoi, four of us made a break for it. I don't know who the other three were. I never even got their names. We'd all been kept in solitary for so long... I didn't really even remember my own. All three of them were shot. I managed to get away."

Alan took a deep breath, lowering his head and staring at a spot on the floor. "I spent weeks in the jungle, just heading south. Then I... fell down." He shook his head. "I remember falling face down and closing my eyes and thinking how fuckin' ironic that this was how I was gonna die. And I don't remember anything else until I was standing on a street corner in Saigon."

"Why didn't you go to a base?" Hannibal asked. "When you found yourself in Saigon, I mean."

"I wasn't ready," he answered simply. "Solitary confinement makes you a little crazy."

Murdock shifted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact.

"I had conspiracy theories galore, and it took me a while to work through them. When I did, I checked up on a few buddies and found out Carl Davids had died under mysterious circumstances in his office." Alan looked up, met Hannibal's eyes with an empty stare, and shook his head. "I don't know if it was the Agency. But at the time, you couldn't have convinced me it wasn't."

"You checked up on a few buddies," Murdock repeated dryly. "But you let me think you were dead."

"I got married in Saigon," Alan continued, ignoring him. "I was there for six years after I escaped. We came to the States when Bach Yen got pregnant a second time. Came in through San Francisco, on a cargo ship. Bought new identities from a guy who was willing to sell them for a thousand dollars each. When our son was born, he was an American citizen." He looked away. "He died two years later. He was... sick."

Too much information. Too much _irrelevant_ information that didn't even make any sense. At the moment, Murdock only cared about one thing: the thought that kept racing in circles around his brain. "So you just decided not to contact me 'cause you didn't _feel_ like it?" he cried.

"I didn't contact you because you worked with the Agency, too," Alan shot back with a glare. "I ain't saying it was rational, but I didn't want them knowing I was alive."

Shaking with bottled up emotion, Murdock rose to his feet. "Do you have any idea the... the hell I went through? I checked newspapers every day looking for something to tell me that they'd found you, dead or alive!"

There was a part of him that expected someone - Hannibal, maybe - to stop him. But nobody did. Nobody said a word and his thoughts tumbled fast and furious out of his mouth. "When they're sayin' there's no more POWs over there and any other MIA must just be dead, and I just wanted to find your body or... or _anything_! And you were alive? You were in San Francisco?"

"I wasn't in San Francisco for very long," Alan answered, as if that might somehow make it all better.

Murdock could feel his hands balling into fists, and he fought back the unusual flicker of violence that flashed across his mind - a brief picture of him grabbing the back of Alan's head and putting it through the brick fireplace. The thought horrified the part of him still capable of reason. He had to get out of here. But his escape plan was hijacked by another infuriating thought.

"You even knew where to find me!" he realized. "You knew exactly how to find me!"

"That wasn't hard," Alan admitted. "Once I found out you became part of their unit in Vietnam, I knew you'd still keep in contact with them."

Murdock stared at the monster incredulously. "And in fifteen years since you got outta there, you're just _now_ making an effort?"

Alan hesitated briefly, then took a deep, cleansing breath. "I need your help."

"Oh, go to hell!" Murdock couldn't believe what he was hearing. Overcome with fury, the words tumbled quickly out of his mouth. "You must be out of your fucking mind if you think I'm -"

He stopped abruptly as he realized he was spiraling out of control. The resounding anger, echoing in his mind and painting his vision bright, blood red was not good. The violent images were no longer flashes but full-fledged scenes of vicious gore like he'd not seen in years. He could feel the worried looks of his team, watching and waiting tensely in case he went off the deep end.

He had to get away from here.

Closing his eyes slowly, he drew in a calming breath, and continued in a tranquil tone that his shrink would've been proud of. "I think I need some air."

Without another word, and careful not to make eye contact with anyone, he turned and proceeded calmly to the nearest exit, then stepped out into the quickly-cooling night. He was pleased when no one stopped him, and even more pleased when they waited until he was well out of earshot to continue their conversation.


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

 **1985**

Silence.

Murdock heard no sound but the chirping crickets in the brush and the soft swish of a light breeze against leaves. The lake was a calm pool of shimmering glass, reflecting the moonlight and a thousand tiny stars. Breathing in the serenity, he struggled to clear his mind, focusing his attention on what was real. For so long, Alan had existed only as a figment of his imagination, a product of too much trauma and too little sense. It seemed wrong to stand face to face with him, to hear his voice and know that others heard it, too. All these years, there had been no chance he was still be alive. If Murdock had known... If he'd even thought there was a remote possibility...

Drawing in another shaky breath, Murdock's hands trembled. He was losing his grip. He'd been slowly losing it since the moment he saw that ghost. But now he could hear it in his head even if he couldn't find the words because they were screaming too loud - way too fast - before they ever got to his mouth. Like machine gun fire on an AC-47 that could give off a jillion rounds per second at the targets he didn't even know if he wanted to hit anymore. So long ago, and yet it was just like it was now, like it was happening all over again. And while his brain wound further and further down that dangerous path, he realized that everything inside of him was screaming in agony at the thought of going there.

He couldn't find his way out of the brown paper bag. His head was all twisted in some kind of origami contraption like those folded pieces of nothing he used to make when he was a kid. Lotus flowers. He laughed bitterly, angrily. Like a leopard in the tall grass, dangerous memories waited to pounce and drag him off like prey into someplace from which he would never come back. His eyes slipped out of focus as he went without a fight, too emotionally exhausted to save his own life and well aware his protests would land on deaf ears even if he gave it his absolute best shot. He was slipping...

Back to the agony of uncertainty. Back into the blood-soaked memories of sleepless nights. To the smell of fear and death and decay and the burning scent of gunfire and napalm-fried skin. Back to the insanity of war, of slaughtering another human being simply because if he didn't, they would slaughter him.

Confusion.

The rush of lost and long-buried memories returned so quickly, it took a conscious effort not to cry out. As if he'd just put his hand flat against the red-hot coils of an electric stove, they seared him irreparably. Rambling thoughts. Screams and shouted orders. Panic and anger. It wasn't his fault he'd crashed; the damn thing handled like a boat and it was all on fire after the rockets hit it. The rockets wouldn't have hit it if he could've dodged them but it couldn't have been his fault. He couldn't have saved them. He couldn't have saved any of them.

Chaos.

The Skyraider just wasn't built for extractions. He couldn't have saved Alan; he'd barely saved the major. Sometimes the knight simply couldn't slay the dragons and sometimes, everybody died.

Relief.

He searched through memories of alcohol and nameless women in the Saigon brothels, like little doses of Lidocaine on a third degree burn - too little too late to take away the pain. Drinking binges and week-long hangovers. Uniform and Article 15. Silence and uncertainty. It hadn't taken him long to give up on all of it. Never knowing until he never thought he ever even cared. Bedlam. Agony. Guilt and anger. Hatred and betrayal.

 _"Alan, I think I made a mistake..."_ Trained for so long not to flinch at the sight of blood. Not to think about the life that was spilling out on the ground. _"Better they should never know..."_ Locked doors and too many voices, echoing off the whitewashed walls. Memories that were never his to begin with, lies and mind games, loss and loneliness.

 _"We want you on the team..."_ Drugged and confused, staring at a familiar face as if he didn't even know him. Lie to him, too. Better he should never know. _"I gotta stay in here, Colonel. The door's locked and the monkeys don't like it if I come out..."_ Guns and grenades. Civilian life was merely a glorified horror movie.

Thoughts racing, adrenaline pounding. Second nature to fly a plane. He didn't need to think. Mind wandering... sing louder. Don't lose that delicate balance or fall off that tightly pulled rope and hit the ground below in flames and screaming and death. Nowhere to go but forward. No destination but higher. _"Get the clearance, Murdock. Lynch is right behind us."_ Months and weeks and years of confusion and pain and it had all led him right here. Now if he could only find his way through the darkness and figure out where "here" was.

"Stop!"

The white silence filled his mind as the monsters fled back into their dark and terrifying closets. But the entirely lucid part way down deep inside that had been trying for years to consume him with guilt was still screaming insults. _"I told you he wasn't dead! I told you! You gave up on him, you bastard! You turned and walked the other way and you left him for dead when you knew he wasn't dead!"_

Murdock's hands tightened into fists, nails digging into his palms as he sought any direction to safely deflect the self-hatred. He had known. He'd never been able to explain how he'd known, but he'd always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his brother wasn't dead. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that it wasn't true, no matter how many newspaper reports told him that it wasn't true, he knew it was.

 _"What does it matter?"_ he shot back at that bitter, angry voice inside of him. _"It's not like I could've done anything about it."_

 _"You could've gotten him out."_

 _"Bullshit. There was nothing I could've done."_

 _"I guess we'll never know, will we? You gave up on him before we could find out."_

 _"Shut up!"_

He realized he felt pain, and looked down at the tiny crescents of red where his fingernails had drawn blood from his palms. _"You deserve to bleed a hell of a lot more than that, you crazy bastard..."_

"Damn it, shut _up_!" he yelled, out loud. The chirping crickets quieted, but the voice in his head only paused for the briefest moment before it continued, laughing quietly, mockingly. Murdock rose to his feet, pacing along the water's edge as his hands shook with fury at the taunting voice.

 _"You were with the best SOG unit in Vietnam,"_ it ridiculed. _"You all risked your necks to save men you didn't even know and you wouldn't even go in for your own brother."_

"We did go in for him," Murdock growled. "We went to A Shau. We went back to Son Tay! He wasn't there!"

 _"You should've kept trying."_

"It wasn't my call!"

 _"So you just gave up on him. You pretended he was dead. Pretended like there was nothing you could do."_

"There _was_ nothing I could do."

 _"If it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, you go right ahead. But he spent years in a POW camp knowing that nobody even cared."_

"I did care!"

That one final yell, up at the sky, probably echoed all the way to God in heaven. More importantly, it silenced the noise in his head. Exhausted by the rush of emotion, Murdock sank to his knees, lowering his head as he struggled to catch his breath and slow his heart rate. His pulse pounded in his ears, tears streaming down his face. Exhaustion was not peace, but it was the closest he was going to get.

 **1969**

"I had a dog and his name was Blue..."

Murdock listened to the unfamiliar song, slower and sadder than it was ever designed to be sung, as it echoed off the walls of the Pleiku NCO club. On the lips of a dozen scarred soldiers, none of them particularly in tune, the song recounting the life, loyalty, and companionship of Old Blue held a whole new meaning to them now. The Special Operations Group had lost one of their own on a mission in North Vietnam.

"Hey, Blue, you're a good dog you..."

At the final chorus, instead of calling the dog's name over his grave, the somber choir recited a long list of names - men who'd lost their lives in SOG ops. At the conclusion, several of the singers headed to bed. But Murdock remained behind, sitting at the bar, soaking in the depressing atmosphere hanging in the air.

"You okay?"

He looked up as the blonde lieutenant approached and sat down comfortably. "Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbled under his breath.

"You should get some sleep," Face suggested, almost casually, taking another long drink from his beer. "I hear Westman has new orders for us tomorrow."

"Westman?" Murdock asked tiredly.

"General Ross Westman," Face clarified. Murdock recognized the name instantly. The man practically ran the war, and Murdock didn't know what to think of the idea that he gave orders directly to this new team.

"Officially, SOG is accountable directly to the Pentagon," the young lieutenant continued, as if reading the confusion Murdock was sure he didn't let show, "but it's not like they call to chat with us on a regular basis. Westman acts as sort of a liaison. He either gives us our orders or he sends us to someone else who will."

Murdock was surprised, but it wasn't as though he actually cared where their orders came from. Lighting another cigarette to replace the one that had burned out, he closed his eyes and wished the kid would go away.

Face took another drink and turned the tin cup in circles on the unfinished surface of the bar as he let the silence linger for a moment. "You know, Murdock," he finally said, "if you go to pieces every time you see a man go down, you're not going to last very long."

Murdock turned to him, brows raised at the challenge. "Not going to last?" he shot back. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean up here," Face said unassumingly, tapping his own temple with his index finger. "It's not just bullets that kill you, you know. And you're no good to us dead."

"Right," Murdock grumbled, looking away again.

Face finished the last of his beer and left the empty cup on the bar as he slapped Murdock's back. "Think about it."

Without another word, he was gone. Murdock shook his head, glad to be left alone. But the respite didn't last. "Kind of a hard-ass, isn't he?"

Glancing up again, Murdock briefly locked eyes with Boston. "He's definitely overcompensating for something," Murdock mumbled under his breath.

Boston chuckled. "Overcompensating?"

"Fearless is one thing," Murdock said dryly. "But he's downright cocky about death. Almost like he doesn't realize how serious it is."

"It's a part of the life we chose," Boston replied with a shrug. "We'll probably all die out there. Hell, we know it every time we cross the wire."

Murdock sighed, and wondered if telling the man to go away would achieve the desired effect or make things worse. He didn't need a lecture about being a good soldier in the midst of the horrors of war.

"Face is one of those guys that..." Trailing off, the dark-haired man shook his head. "I used to think he had a death wish. Then I realized that he just doesn't think about it."

Murdock stared into his empty tin cup. "Sounds like a death wish to me."

Ray chuckled. "No, you misunderstood me. He doesn't ignore the risks; that would be more like Hannibal. He just doesn't allow himself to dwell on them."

"So Hannibal's the one with the death wish?" Murdock rubbed his forehead with all ten fingers. He could tell the Sergeant was trying to welcome him into the fold, trying to smooth things out and give him information with which he could build meaningful relationships within the team. It was a noble gesture. At the moment, Murdock wanted no part of it.

Ray lit up a cigarette in the silence that followed, right about the time Murdock finished his. "Did you know that for the longest time, Hannibal's recon team had a reoccurring problem that every time they came back, everyone would quit?"

Murdock couldn't help but chuckle at that. In spite of the fact that he just didn't care, it was one hell of a claim to fame. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious," Ray answered. "He'd pull some pretty death-defying stunts. Had good instincts, though. Always has. The men he brought back were still alive to quit."

Shaking his head, Murdock dropped his hands, closing them around the empty cup again. "So how'd you get hooked into this?" he asked, mustering up some curiosity.

"I volunteered." Boston paused for a drag from his cigarette. "Sought him out, actually. Been here ever since."

"What about the kid?" Murdock asked, shooting a brief glance in Face's direction.

"Face was a little bit different," Ray offered. "He and Hannibal kind of clashed at first. Of course, you couldn't tell now. Now, you can't separate them. BA and I rotate out as One-Two, though BA's first love is definitely demo. Cipher's got extensive medical training. He goes on just about every drop. But Hannibal's always One-Zero, and Face has been One-One for the past 16 drops."

Murdock shook his head. "Sorry," he muttered. "I only understood about half of that."

Ray chuckled. "The One-Two is the radio operator. The One-Zero is the team leader. He makes the call on what happens where and how. The One-One is his assistant, and replacement if he's KIA. While the One-Zero is alive, the One-One will never make the call for an emergency extraction, for example. But he'll do the flyovers and take surveillance pictures before we drop in if Hannibal has too many other things to do." Ray smiled. "Contrary to what you might see on your end, each one of these drops takes a ridiculous amount of planning. Unless we're on the ground, Hannibal is usually a camp ahead of us."

"And Harris- er... Cipher is a medic?" Murdock guessed.

"Yeah," Ray nodded. "We're all cross-trained. But Cipher was actually in med school before he dropped out to join the Army."

Murdock paused. He hadn't know that, but nothing much surprised him anymore. Casting a quick glance at the blonde lieutenant who had settled in with another crowd of soldiers, Murdock sighed. "So why didn't Hannibal and Face get along?" he asked, reverting to the original question. If he had to talk, he at least wanted to talk about something potentially interesting.

"Mostly because they were both good and they both knew it... but they were polar opposites. Face likes planning; Hannibal likes spontaneity. Hannibal likes confrontation; Face prefers to evade. They balance each other out," he smirked, "even if the outcome of most of their arguing ends in Hannibal's favor."

"He's in charge," Murdock shrugged.

Ray paused for a deep breath on his cigarette, leaned sideways on the bar, and tipped his head slightly. "Face held the record on POW snatches even before he got assigned to us. Hannibal may disagree with him, but he does respect him."

With a frown, the pilot looked back at Boston. "He's just a kid."

Boston laughed loudly at that, and finished the rest of his drink before setting the cup neatly on the bar top beside Murdock's. "I think that depends on your definition of 'kid'," he answered with a grin, clapping a hand over Murdock's shoulder as he left the counter. "And in any case, you'd be wise to keep that shit to yourself."

 **1985**

Face had long considered himself good at navigating emotional minefields. It came with the general MO of avoiding said minefields in his day-to-day encounters with the opposite sex, as well as the all-too-frequent need to diffuse a bomb of angst and anger before it exploded in the general direction of his team. It didn't always work - sometimes it became necessary to simply preempt the explosion with an even bigger bomb - but he never lacked the opportunity to practice his skills.

Explosions within the team were more difficult, and far more rare. He'd familiarized himself with the layout of Murdock's general state of mania and the occasional dip into any of the dozen psychoses he frequented. But this anger and deep seated angst was something that hadn't been a part of Murdock's repertoire for a very long time.

Hands in his pockets, stepping lightly over the mushy leaves overlaid with a layer of crunchy ones, he approached with caution. Murdock looked small, huddled against the trunk of a hundred-year-old tree with his knees bent and arms wrapped around them. Although Face was sure he'd made enough noise to be heard by even the most untrained ear, the hunched figure didn't look up.

"Mark?" Face asked when he was within easy earshot. "Really?"

Murdock shut his eyes, as if he could make the intrusion disappear by simply pretending it wasn't real. "Go away, Face," he pleaded when that tactic failed.

It was the response Face had predicted, and it gave him some relief. The territory was unfamiliar, but he knew his friend. Ignoring the request - as if it had been intended as a mere request - he stepped closer and finally sat down on the cleanest looking boulder nearby. It took a moment for him to settle in, impeded by the slippage of his polished leather shoes in the mud. He cast a longing look over his shoulder at the comfortable cabin at the top of the hill before turning his attention back to Murdock.

"I've got to be honest, I never even thought to ask what your full name was," he prodded. "I know it's just HM on all your government paperwork. And everything at the VA."

Murdock got up with an irritated growl. "That's all it is," he answered roughly, taking a few steps towards the water's edge before picking up a stone. He threw it out over the lake, skipping it a few times. "Just HM. I had it changed."

Face watched him, not speaking. He wasn't exactly sure where he expected this conversation to go and he certainly had no intention of driving it. For the most part, he was here to be a sounding board. If the confrontation back at the cabin was any indication, Murdock probably needed one right about now. Crazy though he may be, it was rare to see him lose control like that.

Jaw tight and movements entirely too rigid, Murdock bent and picked up another stone. "My brother changed his, too," he muttered. "'Cept he changed his last name at the same time. Made a clean cut. I kept my last name."

"Why?" Face finally asked, bracing his weight on his arm before realizing his hand was resting in mud. With a look of disgust, he tried to brush it off to no avail, and finally gave up.

"My mother was a seasonal manic-depressive," Murdock finally said, almost too low and too slurred for Face to understand. He threw another stone out over the water and watched as this one skipped three times. "Somethin' 'bout pregnancy hormones made her flat out crazy. When she had me an' my brother, she named us both in -"

He stopped abruptly with a shake of his head, bent down again, and spent a moment brushing the dirt off the next stone before he threw it, too. "She called him Israel'sglory - complete with the apostrophe, an' that was his _first_ name - Matthew Murdock. An' she called me Hosanna Marcus."

Face swallowed hard to keep himself from smiling. It was a good thing, too, because Murdock had immediately turned to see his reaction. And clearly, from the look of anger on Murdock's face, it was not funny to him. Once he was convinced that Face didn't intend to ridicule him, he looked back out over the water and picked up another stone.

"Even after she died, my father wouldn't let me change it," Murdock continued, a touch of sadness creeping into his bitter tone. "Was the first thing both Alan and I did when we turned eighteen."

"How much older is he?" Face asked.

"Ten months."

Face's eyes widened. He hadn't even known that was possible. "Seriously?"

Murdock sighed audibly. "She had six kids _before_ me and Alan, too. They got farmed out to friends, taken away by the state. Never met any of 'em. No idea who they are. She met my dad, and just forgot about 'em and started a new family."

Face hid his surprise as well as his concern. It wasn't that he'd never thought to ask about Murdock's family, but he'd always gotten the impression the topic was closed for discussion and frankly, he didn't care enough to drudge up old, potentially unpleasant memories.

"I didn't find out 'til she died that she wasn't even married to my dad," Murdock continued bitterly. "She always said they were married and he never said much of anything. Never seemed to like us very much, or want to talk. 'Specially after she died."

Murdock paused, and the silence lingered until Face finally drew in a breath. "I always thought you and your mother were close," he said cautiously. What few memories he had been given access to were all pleasant, not worthy of the disgust in Murdock's tone now.

"We were." Murdock shrugged and threw another rock before finishing dryly, "When she was around. When she'd get manic, she'd disappear for days. Find her in a jail somewhere three hours away 'cause she started some bar fight while she was dancin' half naked on the tables, preachin' 'bout hellfire an' damnation."

Face stared in blinking surprise.

"But I was just a kid. I didn't understand any of that. Not 'til I got older." He gave a half-laugh, a slight, self-deprecating smile. "Hell, I don't even think the man who raised me was my real father. I never looked nothin' like him an' I sure as hell don't look like Alan. One of the many reasons we never got along."

Murdock threw the next stone so hard, snapping his arm toward the water in a blur, that it skipped six times before dropping beneath the glassy surface. There was something raw there, Face could tell - something emotional he didn't dare touch with a ten foot pole.

"At least he's alive," Face offered quietly.

Murdock laughed. Briefly, cynically, and without the slightest hint of humor. "That supposed to make me feel _better_?"

In truth, Face was stunned by the response. "Sure it is," he answered immediately. "You have a living, breathing, flesh and blood relative out there. That's more than you could say before. It's more than I can say..."

"Yeah, well, you can have 'im." The next stone shot halfway out into the lake as well before falling out of sight, lost forever. "I don't want 'im."

Face frowned, considering the seriousness in his voice. "If that's the case, then why did you go after him?" he challenged. "As I recall, that's the mission where you got hooked up with us in the first place. A Shau? You were also the only one who _pushed_ to go back to Son Tay. None of the rest of us thought it was a good idea, for -" Face shifted uncomfortably, cutting his gaze away. "- obvious reasons."

"I'm sayin' I wish he'd died," Murdock clarified. "I wouldn't wish a POW camp on _anyone_. And I didn't know he was at Son Tay. That wasn't about him."

Face let that lie slide, not wanting to cause any unnecessary flashbacks. "So... the plan at A Shau was to get him out and then go your separate ways like you didn't even know him?" Although he was trying to understand, Face only seemed to be fueling the fire of Murdock's anger.

"Look, it was different then." Murdock spun with a glare. "He's the one who decided he didn't wanna be my brother anymore! I didn't make that call. He did."

"That's not what I just saw." Face pointed back over his shoulder. "It's not what I'm hearing now."

"Only reason he's here now is 'cause he needs somethin'!" Murdock yelled, clearly losing his grip on what calm he'd managed to muster up. "And I don't wanna know what!"

Silenced by the brief outburst of patent fury, Face stared at his friend for a long moment, watching him pace. Murdock finally collapsed in a heap on the ground and dropped his head forward, hiding his face.

Face sighed. "If that's true," he finally said, measuring both the words and sympathetic tone carefully, "you'd better let Hannibal know."

"I don't care," Murdock muttered angrily. "I don't care if you help him or -"

" _We_ help him," Face interrupted.

"I can't." Murdock looked up, staring him dead in the eye. "Face, I can _not_. I just can't."

Face knew when not to speak. Drawing in a deep breath of cool air, he simply sat, still and quiet, turning his gaze out toward the lake in front of him.

"You know how hard it is," Murdock finally continued, "when you gotta deal with the fact that someone you care about is dead an' you don't even know what happened to 'em?"

Face lowered his eyes. Murdock should know better than to ask questions like that. "We alllost people in that war, Murdock. Friends, neighbors, cousins, brothers..."

"Yeah, but he wasn't gone," Murdock cried. "He just let me think he was! Let me go through that, let me live with it every day..."

"He was scared," Face attempted, but barely got the words out before Murdock interrupted.

"Bullshit!" Fists clenched, Murdock looked away. "He knew where to find me. I wouldn't have turned him over to the Agency no matter what he'd done and he knew it. Now he needs something and I'm s'posed to be happy because he come waltzin' back in like nothin' ever happened?" He shook his head, and dropped it forward again, into his hands. "I can't do that, Face. I can't."

Face studied him, silent, for a long time. But he knew full well that no matter how hard he wracked his brain, he wasn't going to come up with anything comforting to say. So he just stayed silent, and pretended not to notice the silent tears falling into his friend's hands.


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **1985**

Before she was even awake, Kelly realized the bed beside her was empty. She wondered for a moment why that seemed strange, then remembered. Murdock was supposed to be with her, tucked into an oversized, exceedingly soft and plush bed in a cozy little room of the cabin. It had taken her more than an hour to fall asleep, and she'd only managed when Murdock finally crawled under the blankets beside her and cradled her wordlessly until sleep finally came. He still hadn't spoken a word to her, directly, about his brother. She could only assume he'd talked to Face when he followed after him to make sure he was alright. Something about that lost, painfully raw look in his eye prevented her from asking any questions.

All of this came rushing back to her conscious mind before she was even fully awake. Worry set in as she felt the empty bed, but she waited a few minutes to see if he'd return. When he didn't, she finally drew in a deep breath, steeling herself for any possibility of his whereabouts and mental state, sat up, and put her feet on the floor. She dressed in the clothes from the day before, noting his were missing as well, then carefully picked her way through the unfamiliar halls and rooms of the cabin.

"Murdock?"

A brief flicker of fear crossed her consciousness. She trusted Murdock's team, and wandering around in the dark with them nearby didn't worry her, even if she didn't particularly know them. But this newcomer was an altogether different story. Murdock didn't seem to trust him, and she wasn't sure whether she should be afraid of bumping into him here, in the dark. Was he a threat? Should she be worried? At least she knew all she'd have to do is yell and others would come running.

Luckily, she wasn't forced to actually navigate the scenario. She found Murdock on the back porch, lying flat on his back and staring up at the sky with one arm under his head for a pillow. Staring blankly into space, he looked like he was in another world, not flinching even as she opened the door and called his name softly again.  
"Murdock?"

They both jumped, startled, as the door closed behind her with a loud _crack!_ she'd not been expecting. As she held a hand loosely to her rapidly-beating heart and waited for the brief adrenaline rush to subside, he studied her. "Hey, sweetheart," he said quietly. "Come out here to watch the stars with me?"

She took a step closer and sat down on the wooden floor beside him, choosing not to point out the fact that he really couldn't see the stars through the canopy of trees. He hadn't come out here to stargaze. "Murdock, it's three o'clock in the morning," she pointed out. "And it's cold out here. What are you doing?"

He held out a hand, inviting her to lie down beside him. Reluctantly, she lowered herself. He snaked an arm around her shoulders and guided her until they shared the warmth of their bodies. With a sigh, she rested her head against his neck, nuzzling him gently.

"Anything I can do to help?" she asked hopefully.

He sighed audibly, chest rising and falling beneath her loose embrace. "I just wanna know why," he finally whispered after a long silence. "All these years I thought there was no chance he was still alive. If I'd known, Kelly, if I'd even thought there was a remote possibility..."

"What?" she prodded gently when he trailed off. "What would you have done?"

He was silent for a long moment, as if considering it. "I would've... known."

As weak as the answer sounded, it held a tremendous amount of weight at the same time. She couldn't even begin to imagine how she would've felt in his place. The grief of losing a sibling was foreign to her in and of itself. But to add the uncertainty of never knowing how it happened and now the betrayal of realizing all the grief and healing was in vain... Kelly didn't think she'd ever be able to truly understand. But if she'd learned one thing in her life, it was that the past need not determine the future.

"You know now," she pointed out, snuggling a bit closer to him for warmth. "What will it change?"

She expected an answer - ideally, a realization that things would be better now. Instead, Murdock stared blinkingly up at the sky as if caught without an answer. "Nothing," he finally admitted. "It won't change a damn thing. He'll get what he wants, he'll go on hating me, he'll walk away, I'll never see him again..."

Kelly frowned deeply at the overwhelming pessimism. "It doesn't have to be that way," she replied. She wanted to paint a different picture for him, but didn't have a chance before he continued.

"Yeah, it does," he said with bitter conviction. "It was always gonna be that way. It just wasn't supposed to be my fault."

Now it was her turn to be caught off guard. "Your fault?" she repeated, pulling away and sitting up. With a deep frown, she peered down at him through the darkness. "How is any of this your fault?"

Murdock's jaw twitched. Eyes closed, he drew in a deep breath before uttering his confession. "I didn't save him."

"You _couldn't_ save him," she corrected. "It's not quite the same thing."

"I gave up on him," Murdock clarified. "I wrote him off. And I think in a way..."

He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with the weight of the words he left unspoken. Concerned curiosity made her lean forward expectantly. "In a way?" she prodded.

Sitting up, he pulled his baseball cap off, ran a hand over his hair, and replaced it again. Suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin, he avoided her gaze. "I didn't want him to die," he said firmly. "But it was easier when he did."

"What was easier?" she asked, confused.

"Everything," he replied, shaking his head. "Living. Being who I am, what I am. He hated - hates - everything about me."

Kelly shook her head. "That can't be true."

"You don't know him," Murdock said dryly.

"He wouldn't be here if -"

"He wants something, Kelly," Murdock interrupted, shaking his head as he turned away, still avoiding eye contact. "He's got a problem; he wants my team to fix it."

"Will you?"

She hadn't meant to ask such a confrontational question. It had just slipped out, without thought. Immediately, she regretted it. The long silence that followed didn't help to ease her discomfort.

"I don't know," Murdock finally admitted.

"Will you at least hear what it is?" Kelly tried.

"It doesn't matter what it is," he answered with a sigh. "What matters is, it's him."

Kelly looked away, trying hard to reconcile this bitter, angry side of Murdock with the generally happy and self-confident man she knew. Crazy or not, he had never looked so badly scarred as he did right now.

"Hannibal didn't let him tell any details about what he wanted," she informed quietly. "He kept trying but... it's up to you whether he even gets a chance to say what kind of help he wants."

Murdock didn't speak. Watching him recede into the dark, empty parts of himself, deep beneath the blankets of anger and resentment and hurt, her heart broke. Maybe this was a side of him she'd never seen, but he was still the man she loved. More than that, he was the man she knew. When the pain died down (or simply went numb) and the light found him again, he'd have to live with the decisions he made right now. Alan had done wrong, and Murdock had every right to be angry. But he wasn't the type of man to be comforted by retaliation.

"It may be easier to just make him go away," she whispered. "I wouldn't blame you. I don't think your team would. But I think you would."

Remaining silent, Murdock looked at her through the darkness.

"You didn't give up on him," she continued softly. "Right or wrong, good or bad, he never gave you the chance to follow through. But this time, it's different. This is your choice. And maybe you're right; maybe he'll walk away again when it's over. But it won't be because you didn't save him."

Murdock studied her for a long moment, but the distance in his eyes made it clear his thoughts were a million miles away. "No," he finally agreed, looking away sadly. "It'll be because he'd rather die than let me have the satisfaction of saving him."

 **1969**

The vaguely familiar voice of Murdock's new commanding officer, heavy with disapproval, cut through his blurry oblivion like a bolt of lightning. "It's seven o'clock in the morning, Lieutenant."

Opening his eyes, Murdock blinked a few times and wondered whether the room was actually spinning or if someone had put him on a merry-go-round in his sleep as a sick practical joke. The thought might have elicited a chuckle if not for the fact that if he laughed, he would end up both dizzy and covered in vomit.

From where he was sitting, just outside the door of the team room, Smith looked like a towering skyscraper blocking out the early morning sun. Good thing, too, because Murdock would've been blinded by the brightness. Flexing a hand around a near-empty bottle of vodka, Murdock closed his eyes again before managing the most articulate response possible under the circumstances.

"Huh?"

"Cipher?" Smith turned away, calling off into the distance. The shout made the pounding in Murdock's head unbearable and the words exchanged by the two men were lost to the pain.

Tipping his head back, Murdock searched for the wall behind him, but his neck was like rubber. His head bounced from side to side, leaving him dizzy. Finally, he gave up and let his chin rest on his chest. Without conscious thought, he raised the bottle to his lips again. He didn't even notice he wasn't holding it anymore until he almost hit himself in the face with his empty hand. "Wha...?" How had that happened?

"Up and at 'em, Murdock." The authoritative voice was only vaguely familiar. "Face, give me a hand here."

Murdock opened his eyes to see the hazy outline of the man standing over him. "Here's my hand," Murdock offered, holding it up. He blinked a few times in confusion upon realizing he couldn't feel his fingers, and wiggled them a few times to see if the feeling would come back. "Hey, look! They move!"

"Let's go, LT," the towering man said dryly.

Suddenly, he was lurching forward and upward. His stomach flip-flopped and the whole world tilted back and forth as if on a seesaw. Wobbly legs gave out from underneath him and he would have clawed for something to grab onto if he could've moved his arms. He realized belatedly that they were immobilized by a man on either side.

"Woah, baaaaaaad move _muchachos_ , I..." Oh God, he could feel the liquor sloshing in his stomach. "I'm... I don't feel so good."

"Yeah, I bet you don't." At least one of these two men seemed to find this funny. Murdock didn't think it was very funny. He was going to be sick.

"Where are...?" His legs gave out as he tried to take a step, and the two men dragged him, feet barely touching the ground. "Whaddaya want you? Can't we...? Where we goin'?"

"You're going to take a shower, Murdock."

A shower? He needed to lie down, not take a shower. "Noooo... bad idea." Eyes closed, he hadn't the slightest idea where he was as they propped him up against a wall.

"Bad," he declared again. "Dunna like it."

His eyes flew open as the lukewarm water hit, and he jerked forward, losing his balance and nearly collapsing in the tiny stall. But a pair of hands shoved him back against the wall, holding him under the merciless attack of the spray.

"I got him," the disembodied voice drifting through his confusion declared.

"You sure?" the second man asked.

Murdock was sputtering, eyes wide and panicked as he struggled to figure out what the hell was going on. His insides twisted in funny ways again and this time, he couldn't hold it back. He bent forward, pushing against the hands that gave way enough to let him lean and empty all the vodka from his stomach. The few seconds of gagging, his throat and mouth burning, gut tying in excruciating knots, took his mind off of the water. But as soon as the heaving subsided, he was pulled up again, his face stuck right into the spray. He coughed and gasped, trying to get away but too dizzy and sick to really fight against the men who were apparently trying to drown him. Adrenaline kicked in as he wondered, in his confusion, if they truly didn't realize - or didn't care - that he couldn't breathe.

"Rinse your mouth," one of the voices instructed patiently.

He decided to trust that voice in the hope it might tell him how to get out of this water. Soaked to the bone in his olive green fatigues and combat boots, Murdock did as ordered. Finally, his assailants dragged him out of the shower and shoved him, none-too-gently, onto the wooden bench outside of the stall.

"You know, when I said I'd buy you a drink, this wasn't what I had in mind."

A towel hit him in the face. He saw it coming, but didn't have the reflexes to grab it. Still shivering, barely able to hold the towel around him, his eyes came to rest on the boyish features of the young lieutenant he'd met just a few days ago. Face was putting on his shirt, which he'd apparently removed to hold Murdock upright in the shower. So it was his voice Murdock had heard. It had to be his voice. He was the only one here; the owner of the other voice had left.

"Here."

There was the other voice. Murdock had the sense to turn his head very slowly as he looked toward it. Cipher held out an Army-issue coffee cup, putting it right up to Murdock's mouth instead of handing it over. "Drink," he ordered, tipping it up.

The shit tasted like lukewarm motor oil. Murdock almost gagged, stomach twisting in knots. But he didn't throw it up. A couple of familiar pills dropped into his hand with the order to swallow, and he obeyed without thought, boosting the coffee's effects with a healthy dose of amphetamines. In a few miserable seconds, it was all sloshing around in his stomach - coffee grounds and all. A pile of dry clothes hit him in the face.

"Get dressed," Cipher ordered. "We've got orders."

Those words did more than all the other interventions combined to sober him up. "Orders?" he repeated, eyes wide. "Wha-? I can't fly like this!"

"Well, then you'd better get your shit together in one quick hurry," Face advised coolly before turning away.

Cipher gave him a quick look up and down before following the young lieutenant out. The panic quickly overcame Murdock's confusion. Orders? They wanted him to fly? He couldn't even walk on his own two feet! He was having difficulty finding the right hole in the shirt to put his arm into! Still wet, still drunk, but now absolutely terrified on top of it all, he froze as he heard a new set of footsteps on the cement floor. Daring a quick look at the entrance, he forced himself to take a slow, calming breath as he recognized the figure.

Another slow breath did little to calm Murdock's nerves as he suddenly realized he was trapped - dripping wet, half-dressed, and drunk - in a room with his CO. The look on Smith's face spoke volumes. Murdock shrank back, trying to make himself small, as Smith put one black boot up on the bench beside him, and towered over him.

"Let me tell you about Special Ops, Lieutenant."

Murdock swallowed hard. He had no idea what to expect, but he knew it wasn't going to be pretty. He could feel his heart beating in his chest as Smith continued.

"We work hard. And we play hard. But we do it in that order."

The Colonel leaned in very slowly as Murdock backed up. Pressed as tightly against the wall as possible, truly trapped, he was nose-to-nose with Smith. Death didn't scare him. Torture didn't scare him. But in that moment, Colonel John Smith scared him.

"If I ever catch you drinking again at seven o'clock in the morning on the day we're moving out," Smith growled, "I'll ship you back to the States so fast, you'll still be drunk when you touch down. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Unable to pry his tongue off the roof of his dry mouth, Murdock nodded mutely, hoping against hope it would be good enough. Smith's eyes narrowed into slits. "I can't hear you, Lieutenant," he spat with obvious contempt.

"Yes, sir," Murdock managed, somehow.

Smith stood up straight again, and headed for the door. "You have one hour," he warned. "And if you're not perfectly sober by the time we're ready to leave, you're off my team."

One hour. Murdock's eyes slid closed as he listened to the frantic pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. How was he supposed to be sober in an hour?

With a determination borne of panic, he realized he needed more of that coffee. A lot more. And he was definitely going to need a couple aspirin, too.

 **1985**

Seven o'clock in the morning found Alan sitting on the front porch, already halfway through a six pack of Budweiser and a quarter of the way through a pack of Marlborough reds. Murdock glared him - at the entire spectacle - as he looked through the screen door. "Nice breakfast," he said dryly.

Alan took a long, slow drag off the cigarette and blew the smoke into the air, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the door. "After the way you was talkin' yesterday, I'm kinda surprised you care."

"I don't," Murdock retorted quickly, and Alan shrugged.

With a deep sigh, Murdock stepped out onto the porch, letting the screen door clap closed behind him. Hands buried deep in his pockets, he clenched them a few times, ensuring he had a firm grip on his anger before daring to speak again. Hat pulled low over his forehead, he didn't actually have to look at the man who made that anger burn deep inside of him.

"Nice jacket," Alan grinned.

Murdock briefly considered telling him to go to hell, but swallowed the words. Instead, he leaned on the porch column and stared silently out at the trees and the cool fog hanging between them, blanketing the thick woods in grey. Finally, he drew in a deep breath and turned, putting his back to the railing and fixing his stare on the wooden planks of the floor.

"Look, uh... I just want you to know that..." He drew in a steadying breath and looked up, meeting his opponent face to face. To his relief, it seemed to help rather than hinder his ability to control the fury. In his dreams, Alan was always so much more intimidating than he was right now, finishing another beer and reaching for the next, unshaven and tired-looking with dark rings under his eyes.

"I'm still real mad at you," Murdock continued, keeping his voice even.

Alan nodded slowly, grabbing his lighter from the arm of the seat and expertly using it to pop the top off of the bottle. He took a drink before attempting a response. "I figure you got a right to be," he finally granted.

"You got no idea what it was like, goin' through all that, tryin' to accept that you were dead and gone," Murdock shot, his boldness growing as he maintained careful control. "An' don't think it was all over in the first few years either. I _still_ think about it. And when I think that you _weren't_ really dead and gone and that you just -"

He stopped abruptly, turning away to preserve the calm-but-angry mask threatened by the emotion welling up in his chest. There were simply no words to express his confusion and fury.

"What would it've taken to call me?" he demanded, withdrawing his hands and gripping the wooden railing tightly. "Just to let me know you were alive. It's not like we needed to do a whole family reunion, just... to tell me you were still breathin'!"

"I'm sorry," Alan replied lightly.

 _Bullshit!_ Murdock's nails dug into the stained wood. "Yeah, well, sometimes sorry ain't good enough," he snapped.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alan take another swallow of beer and reach for his cigarettes. Sorry was definitely not enough when it wasn't sincere, and Murdock couldn't see even the tiniest hint of remorse in the way the man carried himself. Shutting his eyes tightly, he drew in a deep, cleansing breath, remembering why he'd come out here in the first place. Once he'd had a few minutes to compose himself, he spoke again, picking up where he left off.

"But I guess in this case, sorry's all I'm gonna get," he said quietly. "So I guess I'm gonna have to make do. Just don't go thinkin' like everything's all peachy keen between us 'cause I still got a lot of stuff to work through in my head 'fore I'm okay with this."

Alan nodded once, definitively. "Sounds fair 'nuff."

"And _don't_ call me Mark." Murdock rolled his eyes. "I hate that name."

Alan chuckled, but was silenced by a hard stare as Murdock spun on him.

"An' I sure as hell don't wanna have to explain it to any more of my team. 'Least not any more than you'd like to explain why you got a different last name from me." The threat was only implied, but Alan's nod made it clear that he understood. "So let's just leave Pandora's Box to stay the hell shut, got it? I go by Murdock, you go by Alan."

"Alright," Alan agreed. "Don't see why not."

In the silence that followed, Murdock watched the dew burn off the grass. Before long, he was absently testing out the theory that bad girls in songs were always called "Judy". Al Green had a song about Judy. So did Elvis. Then there was "Judy in Disguise" with the lemonade pies and the new car... He never did like that song.

"So who's your girlfriend?"

The question snapped him back to reality instantly, and his eyes narrowed until he was glaring daggers at the damp grass. "Her name is Kelly and you leave her alone."

Alan chuckled, unconcerned by the implied threat. Murdock was not laughing. "I mean it, Alan," he warned with every ounce of sincerity he possessed. "I don't want you aroundher. That's the line and don't cross it or you're gonna see why my bedroom door locks from the outside."

Finishing the rest of his beer, Alan lit up another cigarette before answering. "You know, I gotta admit," he said quietly. "All the places I thought I'd find you, I sure as hell wasn't expectin' you to be in a psych ward."

"Lotta people have written a lotta books on the effects of jungle warfare on _sane_ people," Murdock answered dismissively. This was a conversation he knew well enough how to navigate with no feeling or, really, thought. "An' I've always been a little on the crazy side."

"Maybe. But even so..."

Murdock looked away, not wanting to encourage the small talk. Alan finished another cigarette.

"BA told me why you joined up with them," he started, trying a different topic of conversation. "Or at least when. Never thought I'd see the day when my baby brother was takin' orders from Hannibal fuckin' Smith."

Murdock could hear the snicker in his voice, but said nothing.

"Ironic as hell, don't you think?" Alan prodded. "You run off an' join the Air Force 'cause you don't wanna be like me... an' you end up on a fuckin' SOG unit."

There was no point in arguing or debating the facts with a man who was half-drunk at this early hour. Alan - like most others - probably had no idea what their unit in Vietnam had even been, much less what they did. At the time Alan had disappeared, SOG operations were still relatively new. Even at the end of the war, they had been kept pretty quiet for political and strategic reasons. Since then, there hadn't been a tremendous amount of interest in the nameless, faceless soldiers - many of whom had died without recognition. The real story of their deaths had too often been covered for the safety of those still living. Murdock's vision blurred out of focus as he considered that.

"So they ever teach you how to shoot a real weapon?"

Murdock rolled his eyes as he came back to the present in time to catch the snide remark. "Oh, don't give me that shit."

Alan laughed like a madman, and Murdock paused to let him revel in it for a few seconds before continuing. "And for the record, I will have you know that I outrank you by quite a bit, Sergeant." He spat out the title as if it were a curse word.

"Oh yeah?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but didn't have a chance before the door opened and Hannibal stepped out into the cool morning air. "Morning, Captain."

Alan's jaw dropped, and Murdock felt a twinge of sadistic satisfaction as he answered. "Mornin', Colonel."

"No way, for real?" Alan stammered. Clearly, the alcohol had some effect on him; he was unable to hide his surprise.

Hannibal walked to the post of the porch and leaned on it, arms crossed. Clenching a cigar between his teeth, his gaze lingered for a moment on the beer at Alan's feet. "Glad to see you two getting along so well," he offered in the light and unassuming, purely "Hannibal" way that left no room for argument.

Although Murdock believed Hannibal had refused to listen to the request by their potential client out of respect for him, he also knew the Colonel would take a smug satisfaction in forcing Alan into silent submission after his impertinent kidnapping of Face and demands upon arrival. Murdock felt just as smug.

Tone still exceedingly polite, Hannibal cut through the remainder of the niceties and straight to the topic at hand with precision. "Since we're all getting along, I think it's time to have that conversation about what you're doing here and what it is you want."

Polite smile notwithstanding, Hannibal was anxious to hear what, exactly, was worth all of the drama the man's arrival had caused. Suppressing his own personal feelings on the matter and steeling himself for whatever might come next, Murdock gripped the wooden railing behind him with white knuckles... and waited.


	9. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

"Face?" Hannibal called loudly as BA stepped out through the screen door, footsteps heavy on the wooden planks of the porch. "Get out here."

Face appeared a moment later with a glass of water in one hand and his hair sticking out every which way, still wet from a shower. And then, all eyes were on Alan, awaiting an explanation.

"We're all ears," Hannibal said flatly, leaning back against the post with arms stoically crossed.

Suddenly anxious in the limelight, Alan shifted uncomfortably. "You've gotta understand," he finally began, eyes down as if debating how and where to start. "When I got back to the States, I had no skills, no degree... and there were no jobs."

"So what was it?" Murdock demanded icily. "Drugs, guns, or murder for hire?"

BA stiffened at the accusation. Face eyed Murdock warily, but didn't interrupt. Under Hannibal's watchful, weighty stare, Alan lit his cigarette with fumbling fingers and squirmed uncomfortably before answering. "Drugs to get back home," he admitted, and the emotion in Murdock's glare turned to something dead set between smug and hateful. "But after that, it was cars."

"Cars?" Face asked, brows raised.

Alan sighed. "There was a team of us. We stole cars, drove them across the Mexican border, and my contact sold them to foreign markets."

"You was stealin' cars?" BA was clearly disgusted.

"Look, I knew it was wrong," Alan shot back defensively. "But my family was starving. I couldn't get work. The only skills I had were for hot-wiring cars and killin' VC!"

"Who were you working for?" Hannibal demanded, redirecting the conversation back to the point. "Since I assume it's important to this job you have for us."

"A man named Sam Corrolini." He dragged deep on his cigarette and shifted uncomfortably. "It was a simple gig. I drove the cars in, dropped them off, and walked away with ten percent of their market value, cash."

"So what went wrong?" Hannibal asked.

Another long pull on the cigarette, and Alan eyed the empty bottles before finally setting his fidgeting fingers to tapping on the arm of the wooden Adirondack chair. "Corrolini got an order from some big shot in Venezuela," he said clearly. "The cars he wanted, three of them, were difficult to find... and even harder to boost. But they were big, big money."

He glanced around at the men who were all watching him intently, waiting for more. "We were up in Minnesota still trying to get the third car when we hit the deadline. The other guys split, off to Canada. They didn't have families to go back for."

Hannibal folded his arms, not sure how much of this to buy. Why would an international crime boss risk bringing the police down on his whole operation by going after his employee's family? Still, it wouldn't be the first time a megalomaniac acted irrationally. If Corrolini was used to getting his way all the time...

"I tried to call my wife," Alan continued, "over and over, but I couldn't get an answer. By the time I got back to Arizona, they'd come looking for me." He took a deep breath, almost losing his composure. "He took my daughter. And he killed Bach Yen."

"Do you know it was him?" Hannibal challenged.

Alan sighed deeply, reflectively. "Well, someone who works for him. There's no one else who would've done something like that and it's a hell of a coincidence."

"Why didn't you go to the police?" BA demanded.

"You gotta understand," Alan stammered, looking up again. "My fingerprints are on file 'cause of the Army. They know who I am, and they know I was in that house."

Murdock spoke up this time, with surprising control and clarity. "I think whatever conspiracy theories you might still hold need to take a backseat for the time being," he said. "Are you here because of your missing daughter or because the Agency might find you?"

"You don't get it," Alan shot with an accusing glare. "They think I killed Bach Yen. And missing persons is looking for my daughter. They think I kidnapped her."

"Well, maybe you'd better set 'em straight," Murdock suggested.

"And tell them what?" he cried in frustration. "That I know who's got my daughter 'cause I was boosting cars for the guy? And how am I going to explain the fact that I'm supposed to be dead?"

"Sounds like you're more concerned about doing a few years jail time than finding your daughter," Hannibal pointed out.

Alan glared at him. "I'm not afraid to go to jail if that's what it takes. But Corrolini is across the Mexican border. By the time the cops and the FBI got through all the bureaucratic bullshit to make a move on him, he'd know they were coming. He's probably only keeping her alive for leverage, and he'll kill her without a second thought if she becomes a liability."

"Did they make a ransom demand?" Hannibal prodded.

"No," Alan sighed, then reconsidered. "I don't know. If they did, I wasn't there to get it."

Face shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I know this probably isn't exactly what you want to hear," he said calmly, "but what makes you think he is keeping her alive?"

"Blind faith," Alan admitted. "Until I see her body, I can't give up."

Hannibal exchanged a long, skeptical look with Face.

"And if he was gonna kill her," Alan continued quickly, "why not just do it then and there? Look -" Alan sat forward, on the edge of his chair. "- I got nothin' in the world anymore 'cept that little girl. An' I just want her back safe. Whatever you want, I will get it. Name your fucking price."

Murdock turned his back and stared out over the yard again, watching the last traces of the fog burn away in the bright, beautiful sunlight.

"Give us a minute Sergeant?" Hannibal finally instructed, with the polite mask of a suggestion not to be ignored.

Alan hesitated for just a beat before rising to his feet unsteadily and staggering to the door. "Murdock?" Hannibal asked as soon as it closed behind him. "What do you say?"

Murdock's shrugged. "I say it sounds like the same kinda thing we done a thousand times before," he answered coolly. "Got as good a reason as ever to do it this time."

"Do you trust him?" Hannibal demanded seriously.

Murdock glanced through the window to where Alan was pacing in the living room. "He's being careful not to lie. He prob'ly knows he won't get our help if he does."

"But do you _trust_ him?"

Murdock turned and held Hannibal's gaze for a long moment, and shook his head slightly. "I don't know," he admitted quietly.

The answer was honest, if not reassuring.

"Face?"

With a deep frown, Face cast a glance at the pacing man as well. "I can find a dozen holes in this guy's story," he muttered. "It just doesn't make sense. I mean, come on, Hannibal - hiding from the Agency? After all this time?"

Hannibal nodded with consideration. "I'll admit he hasn't given us a decent explanation of the past eighteen years," he agreed.

"And he won't," Murdock said confidently. "I said he wasn't lying; I'd know if he was 'cause he's not real good at it. Maybe he's..." Nearly choking on the words, Murdock paused for a shaky breath. "Maybe he really is paranoid delusional. It's certainly in his genes."

"Either way," Face replied, "his story doesn't fill me with confidence. For all we know, this guy could be working with the military police."

"No way," BA declared. "If he was, he could've brought Lynch right to us. He come here for our help."

Hannibal raised a curious brow. "Am I to take it you approve of this job?"

"If they got a little girl hostage," BA replied gruffly, "I'm all for gettin' her out. That's what's important."

"Maybe," Hannibal agreed with some hesitation.

"She's probably not that little," Murdock said quietly. "Alan knocked her mom up back in Vietnam."

Murdock could almost see the cogs turning in Hannibal's brain. Alan wanted help to rescue a hostage; if everything else he said was a lie, would that be enough? Possibly, he was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; being tortured in a POW camp could certainly do that. Paranoid delusions could've made him believe the whole world was out to get him. On the other hand, someone really might have been.

"You gonna be okay with this, Murdock?" Hannibal asked, shooting a sideways glance at the Captain. "We'll have to take him with us to see how the board is set up."

"I know," Murdock replied with impressive stoicism. "And no, I ain't lookin' forward to it but I'll stay focused."

Hannibal cast a long look at Face, waiting for his final statement. They were taking the job; Hannibal had already decided that. But he still wanted to know where Face stood. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Face merely shrugged.

"Sergeant!" Hannibal called toward the door.

Alan appeared a moment later, stepping back onto the porch. "That was fast," he noted, rubbing the back of his neck as he uncomfortably waited for the verdict.

"If we agree to help you," Hannibal said flatly, "that still leaves you with the problem of what you intend to _do_ with this hostage when you get her back. You're a wanted man. If you don't sort out your problems with the authorities -"

"I'll do whatever I have to do," Alan interrupted. "But I want to see her first. I want to know she's safe."

Hannibal studied him for a moment, evaluating the sincerity and worry that was difficult to fake. Especially since Hannibal's trained eye had been watching Face do his finest impressions of both for more than fifteen years.

"Alright then, let's pack up," Hannibal ordered. "We'll drop Kelly off at the bus station and head down to Arizona."

The group scattered, immediately setting about the task of getting ready to leave. Clearly stunned by the simplicity of their organization, Alan staggered for a minute before bending down to gather the empty bottles around the chair.

"And just to be clear," Hannibal warned, eyes fixed firmly on his new client, "you've got exactly one hour before we leave to sober up so I'd go make some really strong coffee, if I were you. From here on out, I catch you with so much as a wine cooler in your hand and you'll be walking home. _Without_ your daughter. Think about that before you crack open another bottle."

Alan nodded slowly, mutely.

"We'll leave at oh-nine-hundred," Hannibal informed him, disappearing into the cabin. "Be ready."

 **1969**

At exactly oh-nine-hundred hours, Colonel Smith entered the TOC to find a small crowd waiting. Aside from the team that had dropped into A Shau, there were five others that Murdock did not know - all Yards. Murdock was perhaps a bit more awake than the rest of them; a bit more panicked at the prospect of having to fly when his senses weren't entirely engaged. Luckily, the adrenaline was doing a fantastic job of countering the effects of the alcohol. The caffeine and wake-up pills undoubtedly helped.

"Alright." Colonel Smith took charge the instant he'd closed the door behind him and Murdock sat up a little straighter. Hannibal walked directly toward him, and he prepared himself for an inspection to see whether or not he'd sobered up. But the colonel seemed disinterested, as if he'd completely forgotten the "sobering process" that had begun only an hour before. Murdock blinked in surprise as he was suddenly handed a razor knife.

"All patches need to come off your uniform," Hannibal ordered.

Murdock's eyes widened a bit. "Sir?"

But the colonel didn't repeat himself. Instead, he held out his other hand, palm up. "I'll also need your dog tags and any other personal identification you have on you."

After a moment of hesitation, Murdock handed over his tags. He could feel the eyes on him, an audience here for the details of their mission, anxious to get to the point, but still remarkably relaxed and calm. Both Cipher and Boston had lit up cigarettes and were leaning their chairs back against the cement walls of the underground bunker.

Murdock sat up a little straighter as Smith began pulling back the big black sheet labeled "top secret". He secured it to the side, letting them study the map underneath. Still carefully cutting the stitches on his identifying patches, it took Murdock a moment to realize what he was seeing, and he didn't like it. Little pin flags littered the map of Laos, marking places with names like "Death Trap", "Murder Hill", and "Baby Killer". He realized as he stared at the map that he was now part of something clandestine and extraordinary. The President of the United States had repeatedly and vehemently denied any military operations in Laos or Cambodia. This map said otherwise.

"Are those landing zones?" he asked, hazarding a question before Smith got into the details.

"Yep," Cipher confirmed. "Where we goin' today, Hannibal?"

Unlike the last mission into A Shau, Murdock was briefed right along with the rest of the team this time. He knew the details of the assignment, and he knew just how dangerous it was before he ever went in. He would be dropping them off deep inside of the no-man's-land jungle of Laos. He would be on standby at Tay Ninh to pick them up at any time. He would be flying back - probably into a hot area - to pull them out.

Once Smith had said all he had to say, he asked if there were any questions. Murdock had a million of them, but none of them were specific to the drop at hand so he kept them to himself. Nobody else said anything, and Hannibal dismissed his team.

"Murdock, wait a minute," the Colonel called before he had a chance to make himself scarce.

Murdock closed his eyes and took in a breath before turning back, waiting for the others leave. Soon it was just the two of them in the room. Now the ass chewing would commence, he was sure. But Smith remained almost passive as he dropped the cover back over the maps and reached into his pocket for a cigar.

"A few things you should know before you go out there," he started, his tone calm and even.

Murdock immediately braced himself for a very different kind of conversation than he'd been expecting. "Alright..."

Smith hesitated for a moment. "As far as the United States government is concerned, you no longer exist. If you crash, it's your responsibility and yours alone, to find your way into friendly hands. There will be no rescue attempt. The most you'll get is a fly-over, or - if it happens in the target LZ - a chance to rendezvous with the team that'll be sent out to replace us. If you go down and you don't make it back, you will be listed as MIA somewhere inside of South Vietnam."

Murdock nodded, processing this very slowly. Hannibal gave him a few moments before continuing. "I don't need to remind you what 'top secret' means, do I, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir," he answered quietly.

"Just to make sure we're on the same page, if you talk to anyone - and I do mean anyone, friend or enemy - about these missions, you will be court-martialed for treason," Smith reminded him. "After you drop us off, write one last letter back to your family in the States to explain why you will not be writing any more letters for a while. And it will have to pass a censor, so keep it clean."

Murdock lowered his eyes. "I don't have any family to write to, sir."

"Well, then, that makes it easy," Smith answered, not sounding the least bit surprised.

Smith started to the door and Murdock followed a half step behind, still listening as the colonel continued. "When we drop, you're on-call for pickup until we're extracted. I'll be speaking with the commander at whatever FOB we run out of to make sure we're clear on that. I suggest you make sure that your chopper is ready to crank at any moment, because you may not have time for a pre-flight if we call for an emergency extraction. If you're not at the base when we call, you'd better be in the air and en-route. We won't have time to wait for you."

"How much trouble do you guys run into on these missions?" Murdock asked hesitantly.

"Personally?" Finally, Smith lit the cigar he'd been chewing. "I haven't lost a man in five missions. That's damn close to a record. Sometimes an entire team goes MIA after an insert. Or in the chopper on the way out to one."

"You don't maintain radio contact?" Murdock questioned, surprised.

"We check in with the FAC in the morning and evening. But the only thing you'll hear from us is a request for an extraction."

"What about in the chopper?" He was careful not to let his uneasiness show. "Who will I be in contact with?"

"Usually, you'll have an escort plane - a Birddog or Skyraider, most likely - and you'll be in communication with them."

"And Covey?"

Smith shook his head. "Once you leave the base, the FAC is your highest and only authority." Smith gave a slight smirk, a look that made Murdock even more unsure. "Don't worry, Lieutenant. Your chances of running into any other aircraft out there will be pretty damn slim. Not too many people fly where we're going."

Murdock wasn't sure if that was supposed to make him feel better. If it was, the effort had failed miserably. But he didn't let it show. He simply nodded, and braced himself for the mission that was to follow. More than that, he realized, he was struggling very hard to brace himself for a whole new way of doing war.

 **1985**

 **Special thanks to baltikagirl for correcting my Russian in this chapter!**

" _Segodnya ya govoryu tol'ko po-russki_."

Alan stared at the man seated across the table from him as if he'd just grown another head. "What?" He couldn't even identify the language, much less what Murdock had just said.

But if that bothered Murdock, he had a funny way of showing it. He smiled broadly as he gestured in the air. " _Ya dumayu_ _,_ _chto eto budet zabavno._ "

Alan looked to Face, who just so happened to be the first one his gaze found. "What's he saying?"

Face shrugged as he studied the diner's well-worn menu. "Beats me," he answered, not bothering to acknowledge Murdock. Instead, he flashed a well-practiced smile at the waitress as she approached.

"What can I get you boys to drink?" the pretty, young blonde asked, eyes lingering on the clean cut man with the dazzling smile.

"Coffee, please," he answered, with a smooth slide in his voice that nearly made Alan gag. He'd seen a fair number of smooth-talkers in his time, but Face wasn't even subtle about it.

" _Mozhete sdelat' mne molochnye kokteil'_?" Murdock asked. At least, Alan assumed it was a question by the way his voice rose just slightly at the end.

The waitress stared at Murdock, blinking in confusion and searching for words. "Uh, I'm sorry?"

"He'll have a glass of milk," Hannibal answered, studying the menu with intent.

"Same here," BA declared.

"And I'll have a coffee," Hannibal continued. "Black."

The waitress paused for just a moment to scribble on the pad in her hand. Looking very unsure of the foreign-speaking customer who had taken to staring intently at her with a not-quite-sane grin, she finally gave Alan a tight smile. "And you, sir?"

"Oh. Uh..." He didn't want to admit he felt just as uncertain of the present company as she looked. "Coffee. Thanks."

After they'd taken Kelly to the bus station, they'd started south. Murdock hadn't said a damn thing since Kelly had boarded the bus four hours ago. Now he was talking gibberish. Alan didn't know what to think about that. Or what to think about the fact that nobody else seemed to think it was strange. Except for a brief glare from BA, the antics had hardly been acknowledged by the rest of the team.

"Alright, I'll be right back," the waitress concluded as she tucked her pad of paper into her apron pocket and scurried away.

Another nonsensical question tumbled from Murdock in Hannibal's direction, and Alan looked to see if he would respond. He didn't. BA - who was apparently familiar with this game - had little patience to spare for the unintelligible speech. "You wanna talk?" he snapped. "Talk English. Or don't talk at all. Nobody can understand you, fool!"

Alan stared at BA for a moment, then across at Murdock. " _Ya ne ponimayu vas_ ," Murdock declared with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"What language is that?" Alan asked, genuinely curious. He was looking at Murdock for an answer, but receiving only a blank stare. "Is that Russian? When did you learn Russian?"

Murdock sat blinking at him in confusion for a few seconds, then leaned forward. He gestured with his hands as he spoke loudly and simply with a thick Russian accent. "I no speak the English," he declared. "Speak only Russian."

"Oh, well that's convenient," Face observed with the same casual dismissal as before. Like Hannibal, he seemed more interested in the menu. "Except that none of _us_ speak Russian."

"You're going to need a translator, Murdock," Hannibal suggested.

Face rolled his eyes, but didn't look up. Alan watched, stunned and confused, as Murdock's face lit up with a wide grin. " _Eto pohozhe na rosygrysh!_ " Then, like an actor in a screenplay, Murdock straightened in his chair and held his head up before continuing in a new persona. "He asks -" this one spoke with a British accent "- if you would prefer another language? He is fluent in many languages, you know."

"How 'bout English!" BA shot. It sounded like more than a suggestion.

If Alan didn't know better, from the way that Murdock slipped back into his Russian-speaking self, he might have actually wondered if his brother had developed some kind of split personality. He continued to stare as Murdock rambled more gibberish that "the translator" deciphered.

"He says he is bored with English. Any other suggestions?"

"Sorry, Murdock, I'm going to have to go with BA on this one," Face declared without looking up. "English is our official language, boring or not."

Murdock cast a glance at Hannibal, but got no support there, either. Only a shrug as the older man glanced up briefly to see why the conversation had stopped. After a quick roll of his eyes, Murdock looked back at Face, letting both "personalities" drop.

"Oh, come on. You gotta know another language other than English! What other languages _do_ you know, anyways?" He glanced up briefly as the waitress returned and transferred the drinks from the tray to the table, one at a time. BA was scowling at him, as though the question was just another one of his antics. Perhaps it was. With as long as they'd been together, Murdock should've known what languages they all spoke.

"French," Face smiled politely. "Which I happen to know you _don't_ speak."

"What about in school?" Murdock prodded. "Didn't you ever study a foreign language in school?"

"Latin," Face replied. "Which you also don't speak."

Murdock's eyes lit up. "Oooh, Latin!"

For a moment, Face looked as though he genuinely feared Murdock might break out in a Latin soliloquy. But instead, he only cast a wicked grin, leaning back to allow the returned waitress to set a glass in front of him.

"I don't know Latin," he answered. "How 'bout pig Latin? Do you know pig Latin?"

Face sighed tiredly. "If I say no, would that deter you in the slightest?" Another smile at waitress - their gazes locked for a long moment - made it perfectly clear where Face's interest lie.

"Oh-nay I-ay on't-day ink-they it-ay ould-way."

BA growled. Alan stared. Face gave a subtle wink to the blushing girl who'd managed to ignore the ludicrousness of the mental patient at the table this time around. And Hannibal glanced up from the menu as if nothing was the least bit out of the ordinary. "How's the grilled chicken?"


	10. Chapter Nine

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE RE: "CRUISER"**_

 _Those of you reading along may find this chapter a bit jarring because I've had to change the name of one of my characters. There's been a lot of confusion as to whether I'm one of the writers on a separate series because of a shared OC. The simple explanation is that I created Cruiser, and a cowriter I worked with on the original of this series fleshed him out into (much of) the character you see here. When our partnership split up in 2011, she (and others) went on to write more books for TAT while I moved to another fandom. I wasn't asked about using the character of Cruiser in those books, and when I contacted one of those writers before beginning this rewrite, it would've been nice to have been told he was used because I would have changed his name along with the aspects of his character I am now developing. I wish the other writing group the best, as always, and having worked with them in the past I'm sure their stories are exceptional, but I am not involved in writing them._

 _Henceforth, the character I have been referring to as "Cruiser" will be "Cipher", and I will change the already-posted chapters to reflect this. This should clear up the confusion. Sorry I didn't realize I had to do it until eight chapters in...  
_

 **CHAPTER NINE**

 **1969**

In the three months since Murdock had joined Hannibal Smith's team, he had redefined the term "impossible". He'd also redefined his concept of insanity. From day one of this ludicrous war, he'd been willing to take phenomenal risks if it meant getting even one American out of a red LZ alive; it was what had earned him his nickname - "Howlin' Mad". But Hannibal introduced him to a new level of crazy. He didn't just drop into red landing zones; he made them red - quite literally, in fact - if he thought he had a chance of taking out a few of the commie bastards before getting his men out alive. It seemed once the adrenaline started flowing, he didn't know when to stop.

Now Murdock understood why Hannibal's team had a legendary kill ratio. He also understood why the team was made up of these particular soldiers who, each in their own way, were all just as crazy as their One-Zero - including the latest addition of Bill "Bulldog" Tawney, a PFC with only minimal experience in Special Ops. Although Hannibal had been reluctant to take him, the order had come from Westman himself in light of the fact that Ray "Boston" Brenner was getting short, and unlike the rest of them, he had a wife back in the States. He would be going home just as soon as he was released.

SOG teams normally did a six month rotation in which every member was wounded at least once, or KIA. Miraculously, Hannibal's team had survived well into the fifth month with only minor injuries to the Americans and few dead Yards. In spite of their proclivities to going above and beyond the natural course of wartime danger, they had shockingly long life spans.

Not uniquely, but nevertheless at a startlingly high ratio, Hannibal also had a habit of pulling some of the most dangerous assignments, often into areas where "plausible deniability" was a key term. In three months, Murdock had dropped his team into Cambodia four times, Laos twice, and North Vietnam three times. They'd also visited half a dozen camps in "friendly" territory. Normally, SOG units had several days or even weeks between assignments. RT Cannon never seemed to stop moving; their tasks, quite often orchestrated by Hannibal himself during their official "down time", came so fast and furious, Murdock wondered how they kept up - or more importantly, how they kept alive.

For his part, Murdock had adjusted quite comfortably to the stresses of his new life. He dropped the team into enemy territory, returned to base, and spent the next few days waiting on high alert. He did no other runs, flew no other teams, lifted off the ground for absolutely no reason, and remained completely sober until they called for extraction. Sometimes the waiting was nice, if there were people to talk to and things to do on the base. Other times the boredom nearly drove him crazy.

This time, he had a slight advantage in the war with uninspiring monotony, as he found himself back in the now-rare and always pleasant company of the US Air Force at Ban Me Thout - the very base he had been stationed at before Hannibal had taken him in.

"You really got assigned to a specific SOG unit?" Murdock didn't really know the man who was asking the question, but he understood the skepticism in his voice.

"Yeah, crazy huh?" Murdock answered, a bit uncomfortably. He completely understood how rare his situation was, and how naturally curious people would be. But he also completely understood the meaning of the words "court martial". He didn't want to talk about his team, or about the kind of operations they ran.

"Hey!" Every head turned as a man in green fatigues burst through the flap of the tent, looking around quickly. Murdock recognized him as Specialist Murphy. "Anyone with orders for RT Cannon needs to get back out there! FAC says they're in trouble!"

Murdock was out of his chair like a shot, and out to the rows of choppers even quicker. They had only been on the ground for a few hours; things had clearly gone very wrong, and they were probably under fire. Completing his pre-flight check in all of two minutes, Murdock was in the air long before the other choppers lifted on either side. His co-pilot, an unfamiliar man graciously provided by the base captain, had barely strapped himself in when Murdock lifted the skids off the ground, calling back for a clear almost as an afterthought. In seconds, he was headed into the dead air above the thick jungle. Before the other choppers - two more like his gunship and two troopships - began moving forward, he was already a good distance ahead of them.

"Hey Howlin' Mad, you're not anxious to get out there, are you?" the voice came over the radio, right into his ear.

Without thought, he clicked the intercom mic. "Nah, I just do this for fun," he answered his gunner. Tim Jacobs was a man Murdock had worked with several times before Hannibal had arranged for his reassignment. He was proficient, if a bit carefree, and Murdock tried to keep his tone equally light.

"This gonna be a solo kinda mission?" Tim asked, looking out of the chopper's open side panel at the escort they were leaving in the dust.

Murdock frowned. "Nah, they'll catch up."

The other choppers wouldn't catch up unless he slowed down, and he knew it. But he wasn't overly concerned. If there was ever a chopper that could kick ass, it was the one he was flying. The "Green Hornets" at the 20th Special Operations Squadron had been equipped with two hand-controlled miniguns that fired six thousand rounds per minute - one on each side. They could fire during approach, while passing a target, and they could even pivot backwards to shoot after they passed. But even better than their maneuverability was their reliability. When a Green Hornet minigun jammed, the gunner put on a glove, spun the barrel to clear it, and kept right on firing. With two such guns and two capable gunners, Murdock was brimming with confidence. Still, in keeping with good practice - and good manners - he slowed just a bit to let the others catch up, remaining at the point of the V-formation.

RT Cannon was, indeed, in trouble. Their call for an emergency extraction had been picked up by Covey, flying high overhead in a Cessna O-2 Skymaster. Apparently, their mission had gone well at first, but they had since been backed up against a wide stream. Cornered on three sides by advancing NVA, their only option for retreat was into the water, which would make them wide open targets. Dangerously low on ammo, they were running out of time.

"Hornets One, Two, and Three need to sweep," the FAC ordered. He'd been watching the firefight below, and knew better than the newly arrived choppers what was happening. "Take out their guns if you can hit 'em."

"Roger, FAC," Murdock answered. "Hornet One, sweeping right."

Briefly, Murdock's gaze drifted to his fuel gauge as the other choppers acknowledged their orders. The flight from Ban Me Thout had left him with only enough fuel for a quick extraction. The others would be in the same position. But he couldn't think about that now; he needed all his attention for the RPGs heading in his direction...

"They're right on the water, guys," Murdock called back to the gunners, leading the formation and the other two choppers. "Let's not make this a friendly-fire kinda day."

The only answer he received was the sudden burst of rattling machine gun fire, but he knew they'd heard. Muscles tense and tight, he dove as low as he dared, almost scraping the tops of the trees, to give the men in the back a clear shot at two of the enemy's RPG launchers. Almost simultaneously, they exploded into an impressive ball of fire.

"Hornet Two, I'm goin' down..."

For just an instant, Murdock's blood ran cold. Those were haunting words nobody ever wanted to hear, much less say. Craning his neck to see the wounded bird behind him, he frowned at the smoke pouring out behind her tail.

"Gonna try'n land in that clearing over there," Hornet Two's pilot continued with enforced calm.

"Trooper One, I'll pick him up," came the serious, intense voice of the hopeful rescue party.

Drawing in a deep breath, Murdock circled back around, leaving the two choppers to help each other. They were both out of commission now. Trooper One would be heavy after he picked up the Hornet crew; he'd have to head back. But as long as no one went down in a bright ball of flame, they were still on the path to success.

"Trooper Two, I'm runnin' on fumes." Murdock's eyes narrowed as he checked his own gauge. They were all on fumes and they all knew they would be. Every minute they spent out here consumed more fuel they simply couldn't spare. But he still hadn't caught sight of his team.

"I'm headed back," Trooper Two declared, calling it too early, in Murdock's opinion. But he kept his criticisms entirely to himself as he swept low again, wincing at the sound of AK rounds hitting the chopper from all directions. The NVA had set an arc of fire in front of them in an attempt to force the Green Berets into the river. The flames were already reaching into the second tier of the jungle canopy.

"C'mon, c'mon," he whispered under his breath, eyes sweeping the smoke and flames and shades of green jungle foliage. "Where are you guys?"

"You're trailing smoke, Hornet One."

Murdock checked his gauges quickly, trying to decipher what had been hit. Everything still looked okay, but smoke was never a good sign. "I'm still go for pickup," Murdock answered firmly. "That's my team down there and I ain't leavin' without 'em."

"Hornet One," Covey ordered, the radio transmitter in the plane overhead distinctly clearer than their own, "if you're still a go, you need to move along the river."

"Roger, Covey," Murdock replied with determination. "Talk me through it."

The FAC guided Murdock through the approach at the same time he guided the recon team on the ground to the water's edge. Full throttle, Murdock skimmed along the water, so close it parted on either side. Listening to the orchestration of their efforts, he knew the team should've been waiting. Unfortunately, faced with so much firepower from the enemy, they were too busy shooting to run for the chopper.

"Blast those fuckers, Tim!" Murdock ordered through the mic, adrenaline pounding in his veins as his right-side gunner shot over the top of the team, into the trees. It barely even slowed the enemy's rounds.

Murdock couldn't see, in the dimming evening light, where the team was. All he saw was shadows, muzzle flares, and flashes of tracer rounds. Then came the call that made his blood run cold.

"They got us!" BA yelled into his headset. "Get out, man! Get out!"

Reacting on instinct, Murdock pulled pitch and climbed. No longer willing to work through the middleman FAC, Murdock clicked on his mic. "Hannibal! SITREP!"

The long moment of silence instigated a momentary lapse of Murdock's necessary calm. "RT Cannon One-Zero!" he called again. "SITREP!"

"We blew them back." That wasn't Hannibal's voice, or BA's. It was Cipher's, out of breath and heavy with exhaustion. "But we're out of claymores. We can't hold them back much longer."

"I'm ready and waiting," Murdock said encouragingly. "Everyone still alive down there?"

Murdock glanced at his fuel gauge. No way in fucking hell he'd make it back to base. But he'd be damned if he turned back now. He was going to get his team out of here, and if they ran out of fuel halfway back, so be it. A rescue chopper would already be on its way.

"One KIA, two wounded," Cipher answered. Then, after a brief pause, he continued with a slightly shaky voice. "Please get us outta here, Murdock."

A tense smile crossed Murdock's face, his confidence boosted by the faith that he absolutely could get them out of there. "Will do, Cipher. Just hold on." He drew in a breath and spoke again to the FAC. "One more try, Covey."

"Hornet Three," the FAC demanded, "how's your fuel?"

The other remaining gunship hesitated a moment. "I'll give 'em everything I got for one more pass... but then I've gotta pull out."

Murdock pulled in behind him as he swept in over the trees again. But instead of following, Murdock veered off suddenly and lowered to the bank. The sheer number of bullets ricocheting off the surface of the water made it glisten as though catching the sunlight. Any one of those bullets could take his life, crash this bird, and strand them all in enemy territory. But they looked so much like harmless raindrops on the water's surface, it made the thought feel foreign and surreal. Drugged by the adrenaline, well past the point of reason and understanding, Murdock relied on instinct and gut reactions.

"There they are!" Tim suddenly yelled over the roar of the machine guns and the deafening rotor.

The chink of bullets in the side of the bird made Murdock wince as he lowered and held her two feet off the ground, rock steady in spite of the incoming fire. He couldn't really see the team, but he was as close as he could get. It was up to them now to make it to the chopper.

Ducking as much as he was able in the harness, Murdock listened to the deafening sound of his own breathing and wondered how much longer he could keep this up. The windshield shattered as it was riddled with AK bullets, and more than one RPG passed within inches of them. A cry from the back let Murdock know Tim had been hit, but the machine gun fire continued so the wound couldn't be mortal, could it?

Murdock dared a look up through the shattered, gaping hole where the windscreen had been. The team was bolting for their last chance ride, shooting as they skipped and tripped backwards. An unconscious Hannibal was draped between Cipher and BA, his shirt tied around his waist like a tourniquet or fast field dressing. It was too dim to see if it was covered in blood, and Murdock didn't really want to know. _One KIA, two wounded..._ Murdock's stomach tied itself in knots.

He could see the figures advancing after them, backlit by the flaming jungle, guns blazing. Grunts and cries and shouts from the back made it clear they'd reached the chopper, but Murdock still didn't get the clear to leave. His adrenaline-drugged mind struggled to find the reason and realized only six men had been pulled in. Not counting the KIA, there should've been seven.

BA was yelling. Murdock strained to hear words over the loud rattle of the chopper blades and the raking of the machine guns back and forth. Surely he couldn't think anyone out there was going to hear him. Eyes darting to the fuel gauge again, momentarily distracted by yet another RPG that nearly came right into the front of the chopper, Murdock realized he hadn't taken a breath in a very long time. He sucked in a lungful of the smoke from the blazing jungle, coughing and choking.

"Face!" BA yelled from behind him, "Come on!"

Still gasping as the wind from the rotors drew the blinding smoke towards them, Murdock tried to turn his head and rub it out of his eyes onto his shoulder. He couldn't see. Everything was burning and stinging and... oh shit. Through the haze, he saw the rocket launcher that had missed them only by a few inches shift a little to the right and take aim again.

"Tim!" he screamed at his gunner, choking on the words. "Blast that motherfucker!"

But he knew the launcher was out of range before the gun even tried to turn. No choice. No chance if - when - they pulled that trigger.

"I gotta go!" Murdock coughed.

"No!" Cipher yelled at him. "You wait!"

Waiting wasn't an option. Murdock pulled back from the bank, ignoring the angry curses from the back. Cipher couldn't see the rocket launcher, and didn't even notice the RPG the skimmed the bottom of the bird as Murdock pulled up sharply, towards cleaner air. With bullets slapping the water all around him and riddling the metal walls of the Huey, Murdock climbed... and saw Face's head poke up above the bushes as he sprayed gunfire at the invisible NVA in the thick, smoky foliage behind him.

"Fuck!" he cursed, not sure whether he was more relieved to see the kid alive or concerned now that he had to figure out a way to go back for him.

"One o'clock!" the peter pilot screamed. "One o'clock!" Murdock wondered if the co-pilot had just now seen the rocket launcher that was positioning again.

"Everyone hold on!" Murdock yelled into the intercom as he banked right so hard and so fast the chopper's overhead rotor nearly went vertical. He pulled back just in time to keep from hitting the trees, and realized he was still alive. The rocket had missed them.

A quick glance over his shoulder saw Cipher dropping a rope ladder. He looked up at just the right time to catch Murdock's gaze. "Take us back down!" he yelled.

Murdock didn't think; he simply reacted. Dropping back over the water, he watched all sides as they all loaded and aimed and fired and narrowly missed. He couldn't afford to hover anymore. There were too many guns and rocket launchers aimed directly at him.

Out the shattered window, Murdock saw Face shoulder his weapon and sprint several long strides before diving into the water. He caught the ladder mid-stroke as the chopper breezed past, and nearly tore his arm off in the process. But he held on.

"Go!" Cipher yelled from the cargo bay. "Go!"

He was up in the air in a matter of seconds, with the young lieutenant still dangling behind until the rest of the team was able to pull him in. Once they did, Cipher stumbled to the front of the chopper and grabbed Murdock's shoulder. "You sweet motherfucker!" he yelled over the sounds of the rotor and the wind sweeping in through the broken windshield. "I could fucking kiss you!"

Violently shaking with adrenaline, Murdock pushed the bird as hard and fast as she would go. He couldn't help it, even if he knew it would burn the fuel that much faster. Somewhere along the line, the sounds of relief from the back of his chopper had become more precious to him than air. This brush with death wasn't so different from the last, and wouldn't necessarily be more intense than the next. That didn't make it any less powerful to recognize he was the lifeline. These men would all be dead now if he hadn't taken the insane risk to pull them out. It was a boost to his ego like he'd never known before meeting this team, and it gave him a reason for living he'd never had before. He had purpose now. He had family. Smiling, he let himself feed on the high of that thought as the engine finally sputtered, out of gas, a mere hundred yards away from the base.

 **1985**

"How did you get permanently assigned to one SOG unit?" Alan asked, sitting on the floor between the two back seats of the van. "I didn't know they even did that."

Murdock sighed. He didn't care to talk about the war on a normal day. He cared for it even less when he was sitting in the back of the van on a never-ending ride across several states, being interrogated by someone he neither knew nor particularly trusted. Whatever Alan was, he'd stopped being family a long time ago...

"Normally they didn't," Hannibal answered. He must have sensed just how much Murdock didn't feel like having this conversation.

"You guys worked for General Westman, didn't you?" Alan prodded.

"Usually," Face answered, eyeing the outsider warily. He didn't trust him either. But the war was long over and the information Alan was fishing for right now was just a matter of morbid curiosity - uninteresting if not altogether declassified. The Vietnam War would take some secrets into eternity - at least on paper - and the existence of their team might well have been one of them. But all of SOG had heard rumors even back then, and nowadays nearly all of Los Angeles knew of that special combat team who fixed unusual and challenging problems. There wasn't much to tell, so long after the fact.

"Hey, man," BA interrupted, tipping his head to look at Alan in the rearview mirror, "how come you never made it to CCN? You'da made a good recon man."

"Eh, that patrol shit never did much for me," Alan replied.

Ignoring the ever-present smugness and hint of mockery, Murdock counted each little knick and scrape in the leather covering the armrest.

"You said you know where we'll find Corrolini," Hannibal said, abruptly changing the conversation. Apparently he didn't want to talk about the war anymore, either. At least, he didn't want to sit here playing "one-up" with a soldier who was clearly more concerned about his image than any of them were. In their line of work, now as in wartime, they all knew they had nothing to prove.

"What kind of property are we talking about?" Hannibal continued, and Murdock looked up. The colonel was tired of driving, and anxious to get to the fight. Not unexpectedly, Murdock sympathized.

"It's a mansion," Alan replied seriously. "On a huge plot of land, just across the border. Most of it's wooded."

"How huge?" Hannibal asked.

Alan shook his head. "I couldn't tell you. Miles wide. There's a road leading in, past three gates. The first one you can see off the highway. The second is another two miles in. The third one is at least a mile past that." He looked around. "The road in is paved, but it's real narrow. Two cars can't pass at the same time. Place is a fortress."

"I'm assuming that there's a wall to go with those gates?" Hannibal questioned.

"It's an eight-foot wrought iron fence," Alan clarified.

Face raised a skeptical brow. "Around that much land?" he asked in disbelief. "I know some people really like their privacy but it sounds like this guy has more to hide than some stolen cars."

"You don't understand," Alan sighed. "These aren't just 'some stolen cars'. These are _priceless_ cars."

"Well, they can't be too unique," Hannibal pointed out, ignoring the fact that surrounding several square miles of land with wrought iron was overkill no matter _how_ valuable Corrolini's merchandise. "The one problem with stealing the Mona Lisa is finding a buyer who's willing to pay for something they can never show off to their friends."

Face nodded. "Yeah, black market value goes _down_ with rarity."

"I'd be surprised if Corrolini didn't have his thumbs in a dozen different pies," Alan admitted. "But I never asked. This is not a guy you fuck around with, know what I mean?" He laughed, without humor, emphasizing his point. "I do know that the one time I was there when one of his clients showed up, they came in a limo with a five-car escort. I never got a good look at the guy, but he definitely wasn't your run-of-the-mill bad guy lookin' for a good deal on the black market."

"Sounds like a pretty big operation," Hannibal concluded. "How did you get in on an op like that?"

"I grew up with two of the guys I worked with," Alan explained. "They pulled me in for a few trial runs. I did well, so they got permission to bring me onboard more permanently."

"Man, how'd you get so good at stealin' cars?" BA demanded. There was clearly disappointment in his voice. "I never took you for a thief."

Alan chuckled. "Stealin' cars was how I got sent over to 'Nam in the first place. My probation officer told me next time I got caught, he was movin' me to the head of the draft. And since we both knew I _would_ get caught again, if I wanted any say about _how_ I went over, I'd better sign up on my own." He smirked a little. "I went down to the Army recruiter the next morning."

Murdock's eyes were fixed firmly on one of the raised dots on the interior wall of the van, ignoring this part of the conversation. None of this was new to him. Alan's first run-in with the law had been at the age of fifteen, for a joyride he and his significantly older friends took in a brand new Ford Thunderbird. It happened to belong to the mayor of their small town. It was the first of many times Alan would stand before a judge to explain his stupidity. When he hit eighteen, and it came time to be tried as an adult for the crimes he kept repeating - most of them involving cars in some capacity or another - he'd joined the Army. That was just two months before Murdock put in his application to the Air Force Academy.

Murdock's eyes slid closed as he considered the long dead memories he hadn't brought up in years. There seemed no point in dwelling on the fact that the single most influential decision in his life had simply been a reaction to Alan's choices. The ongoing rivalry between brothers near enough in age to be mistaken for twins had culminated in a standoff. Who would have the fuller and more rewarding life? Whose lifestyle would be more profitable in the end? Whoever dies with the most toys wins. Whoever died last got bonus points.

Murdock only realized how far he'd wandered from the conversation when he heard his name, and realized Alan had posed a question. "Huh?" he asked, glancing over at him.

"Man, you ain't listenin' at all, are ya?"

Murdock rubbed the armrest with his thumb again. "Not really," he admitted, disinterested.

"I was just askin' - did you have to transfer to Army?"

Murdock sighed. Why had they gone back to this conversation?

"That one unit you were in was the only Air Force unit that even flew choppers in 'Nam, wasn't it?"

"The 20th Helicopter Squadron," Murdock offered without answering the question.

But Alan noticed the avoidance and asked again, "So did you transfer?"

Shifting a little uncomfortably, Murdock cast a quick glance across at Face's slightly concerned expression before answering. "Yeah, I did." It was more complicated than a transfer, but he didn't feel the need to explain. "1st Aviation Brigade."

Alan sneered at him. "Too pussy for Special Forces?"

The tense silence that followed that statement was thick enough to be cut with a knife. It wasn't immediately clear whether no one knew what to say or they were just waiting for Murdock to make the first move. But then, in the rearview mirrors, Murdock could see the tight jaws and dark eyes of both BA and Hannibal. Either one of them looked ready to tell Alan to step out of the vehicle and into the dry desert of Arizona. Whether or not BA would stop the van first seemed yet undetermined. Face's look of surprise lasted a little longer before his eyes flickered with a dangerous look Murdock hadn't seen in years. He opened his mouth, but a quick shake of Murdock's head made his jaw snap closed again. It wasn't worth it. Murdock looked out the window again.

Alan must have realized he'd made a mistake, because the smile fell from his face when he saw no one was laughing. He cleared his throat, lowering his head a bit. "Nah, I'm just kiddin', man," he tried to recover. "Special Forces takes a certain kind of soldier. You're either that kind of soldier or you're not. No gettin' around it."

Alan looked to the other three Special Forces soldiers in the van for confirmation, but none of them spoke and none of them held his gaze. The silence lingered, and Alan continued uncomfortably. "I found that out the hard way," he rambled. "Saw one too many guys crack under the pressure. Guys always said, right from the beginning, always told me. You're either born with it or you ain't. Some guys just can't take the stress."


	11. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER TEN**

 **1985**

The rest stop was unnecessary. BA pulled off of the road just to break the uneasy silence that had settled inside the van. As he pulled into the self-serve side of the pumps, there was still a long hesitation before anyone got out. Then Hannibal left, and Murdock stepped out to allow Face and Alan to exit before climbing back in and sitting down again. In the driver's seat, BA turned to face him.

"Man, why you let him talk to you like that?" The anger in his voice was palpable.

"Let him?" Murdock replied with a self-deprecating snort of laughter. He didn't look up. "Probably the same reason I let you."

"I ain't never said nothin' like that to you!" BA nearly shouted back, indignant. "Never!"

Murdock sighed deeply and leaned forward, hiding his eyes with a hand. "I know. I'm sorry."

"No one got a right to say stuff like that to you! You may be crazy, but you still a good soldier. Always were. And we all know it."

Murdock sighed again as he let his hand drop and flopped back against the grey leather. "BA, stay out of it," he pleaded. "It's got nothing to do with the kind of soldier I was."

"He still ain't go no right," BA continued, ignoring the request. "I thought you had more respect for yourself than that!"

"He's my brother," Murdock replied, closing his eyes in the hope that this bad dream might fade when he opened them again. He was used to making these excuses, even if they were usually only to himself. But he hated doing it all the same.

"That don't make it right," BA snapped back, not convinced. "An' if you can't tell him that, I'm gonna do it. With this!"

Opening his eyes, Murdock saw BA glaring over the top of his gold-studded fist. With a frustrated sigh, Murdock turned to look out the open side of the van. "Great," he said dryly. "You two should have a wonderful conversation. You speak the same language."

He could feel BA's glare boring into him. "All this time we spend teachin' people to stick up for themselves, an' you just gonna sit there and let him -"

"Yes!" Murdock interrupted, bundling all of his frustration into that one word. He threw up his hands as he whipped around to face BA again. "Yes, I'm going to let him! Now why don't you just... fuel up the van so we can get outta here, huh?"

BA didn't answer, seemingly caught off guard by the outburst. In the silence that followed, Murdock shook his head, and finally rested it back against the seat again, eyes closed. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean..."

He never finished. With another sigh, he let his eyes drift to the side of the gas station, where Alan was lighting up a cigarette, wandering around to stretch his legs. BA still hadn't left the driver's seat when Face stepped out of the gas station and glanced around, eliciting an invitational wave from Alan.

"He's half right, you know," Murdock mumbled, more to himself than BA. The anger expended, only sadness was in its place. "Not about the reason, but..."

He swallowed hard as he trailed off, shutting his eyes. Their lifelong history of trying to outdo each other went far beyond the bounds of normal sibling rivalry. Ultimately, Murdock knew there was nothing he could say or do to gain his brother's respect - not for his accomplishments, or for the person he'd ultimately become. It didn't matter if he was a pilot or if he'd gone hardcore infantry. He would never measure up - not in Alan's eyes.

"When he joined the Army, I hated him for it," Murdock admitted sadly. "I went Air Force just to... to be something different, something better than him. I wanted to outrank him, outperform him. I sure as hell never thought he'd be good enough to get into Special Forces, but... that's just how it worked out."

"Man, what's wrong with you?" BA demanded. But the harsh tone had dropped from his voice. "You ain't gotta prove nothin' to nobody!"

"He used to pound the living daylights out of me," Murdock continued absently. "I spent my teenage years in his shadow. The teachers loved me - a relief after they'd had to deal with him. But everybody else..."

Murdock sighed deeply and watched Face and Alan's casual chat. He knew something wasn't right when Face accepted a cigarette before turning to walk with Alan in the opposite direction from the van. Face hadn't smoked cigarettes since Vietnam, and he was intentionally leading Alan away from the public eye. But rather than investigate, Murdock looked away.

"When he joined the Army, it was all about how he was bored with life in the States, and he was heading off to the only place in the world where he could get _paid_ to kill people." Murdock shook his head, half-laughing at the ridiculousness of his own words. "I didn't find out 'til years later about his parole officer scarin' him shitless with the possibility that he could get drafted and have no say about how he was going. So I did him one better. He went into infantry and I went to the Air Force Academy."

"Hey, man," BA answered. "You coulda done Special Forces if you wanted to. You wanted to fly. An' we needed you to fly. You were good at it. You saved our lives."

Murdock knew that. He also knew explaining it to Alan would be a waste of his breath. From the moment Alan had asked about his rank, he knew nothing had changed. He outranked his older brother by a mile, so clearly that rank must not have been as difficult to achieve, or worth as much. And frankly, as satisfying as it had been to watch the surprise on Alan's face, Murdock had known he would pay for it later, with some crude, cruel comment intended to cut him down to size.

He knew this game well. He'd been playing it his whole life.

 **1985**

Alan wasn't expecting an attack. And Face was fast. His fist connected with Alan's jaw so hard he felt teeth give way under his knuckles. As the man stumbled back in stunned confusion, Face was on him in a flash, an arm across his throat. It didn't matter that Alan was twice his size; Face's footing was solid and even giants needed air.

"I know you think your blood relation gives you certain rights," Face growled, "but if I ever hear you talk that way about Murdock again, you'll have more than my fist to worry about; are we clear?"

Still stunned and choking as he pulled on Face's arm, he gasped out something that sounded vaguely like, "Yeah," and Face took a step back, letting him breathe. He knew Alan's type - hardcore and proud of it. From the tattoo on his arm to the way he walked, he reeked of it. It was in the tone of his voice and the arrogant look in his eye. It was also in the way that he pushed his brother around - and Face had no words to describe just how much that pissed him off. His lack of respect for a man Face owed his life to - hundreds of times over - had been evident from word one, and it was starting to get under Face's skin.

Expecting a retaliation, Face watched the man's every move as he rubbed his neck, then his jaw. But no retaliation came. Either he knew he deserved it or he didn't want to make enemies of the only people who could help him find his daughter. Taking a swing at Face was likely to draw unwanted attention.

"I know Murdock is trying to keep the peace," Face continued, watching Alan regain his composure, "and we respect that. We'll wait until he's not around if we ever need to have this conversation again. But next time, you won't just be talking to me."

Alan cleared his throat and shook his head, turning to spit blood into the dirt. "Murdock ain't the only one who wants to keep peace," he assured gruffly.

"Good."

Face didn't turn his back until he was well out of range. Murdock was standing outside the van now, his spirits seemingly lifted by the bottle of Coke in his hand. The indistinguishable chatter between him and Hannibal was followed by a brief laugh. Hannibal caught Face's gaze just briefly, and a nod passed between them - all of the communication necessary. By the time Face reached the van, BA had stalked back to the driver's seat from inside the store with a menacing glare in Alan's direction. It seemed their friendship, such as it was, had met an untimely end.

"Let's go!" BA ordered.

"We'll need to get as close to this place as we can tonight," Hannibal added as Alan moved quickly to join them. "So that we can get a good night's sleep before we go in."

Alan clapped a hand over his brother's shoulder as he passed. "You alright, Murdock?"

A tight smile answered him, and Murdock looked away.

 **1970**

You can't train a man for Special Forces. That's what his brother used to say. A man is either born for it, or he's not. As Murdock's eyes opened slowly, the oversimplified assertion was the very first thing in his mind. Where was he? Head throbbing and vision blurred, he realized with no small amount of panic that the last thing he remembered clearly was bedding down in the barracks tents of a brand spanking new camp just south of Hue. Now, he was in the eerily quiet jungle, waking up with a throbbing pain in his head, completely disoriented and missing a good chunk of memory.

"Everybody okay?"

Hannibal's voice was reassuring; Murdock wasn't alone. Still, he fumbled for the seatbelt harness with shaking hands. It was instinct to try and pull free of the restraints, even though he had no idea why he was strapped in. Completely disoriented, he had no idea what country he was even in. It was only just beginning to sink in that he hadn't landed the chopper here, he'd crashed. The chopper was suspended, nose to the sky, a few feet up in the trees amid five-inch-thick vines.

He stopped struggling with the harness, shut his eyes, and tried to remember as a thin trickle of blood snaked its way down the side of his face. Five days ago, he'd dropped off his team in North Vietnam. He remembered that. Concentrating hard, he could also remember the call for the extraction. Had he picked them up? He must have, if Hannibal was with him.

"Murdock?"

He jumped, craning his neck to see the cargo bay. It was still empty. The voice had come from outside, down on the ground where Hannibal was looking up at him. "Huh? What?"

"You okay?" the colonel asked calmly.

Murdock swallowed hard. So blurry. He'd lost control of the chopper. Why had he lost control? Something had gone very wrong. He remembered pulling the nose of the helicopter up to the sky... falling through the trees... What had happened to make him go down? Had they been shot? Unable to put the pieces together was, in and of itself, almost enough to initiate panic. But that wasn't the question.

 _Focus!_ he chided silently. Was he okay? Was he hurt? He took a few seconds to evaluate, then nodded. "Yeah. I'm okay." 

"Is the radio still operational?" Hannibal asked, calmly moving on to the next order of business.

Murdock looked. The radio was smashed, along with the entire dashboard... and the co-pilot on his right. Murdock didn't check for a pulse. He didn't need to. "Jesus," he mumbled under his breath.

"Murdock!"

His head snapped back to where Hannibal was standing straight and still, just a few feet away. "Huh?"

"I need you to focus, Murdock," he said patiently, and Murdock suddenly wondered where the rest of the team was. "The radio. Is it working?"

Murdock shook his head. "No. No way in hell, Colonel. It's smashed."

"Did you get out a call before we went down?"

His thoughts were so clouded, so muddled by panic at his complete disorientation, he wasn't even sure how to answer that question. He forced the racing terror in his head to quiet down and shut his eyes, composing himself. He'd been flying. Where had they even been going?

"I did, yes," he answered confidently. The memories were returning in a hodgepodge of snapshots. He'd talked to Covey. He'd said... that they had taken enemy fire? That they had engine trouble? What the hell had happened? Where were they?

"Then they know where to start looking for us," Hannibal concluded. "How far are we from the nearest base?"

Finally, Murdock managed to unlatch the harness that held him. He almost fell out of the chair, realizing too late just how steep the pitch was and how much the chopper leaned to the right. He grabbed his maps and his SOI - it was a court-martial offense to lose one of those - as he pulled himself up to the door and then out of the mangled chopper, jumping down to the ground. Immediately, his eyes were darting over the trees all around them. There were enemy soldiers somewhere in those trees, with AK-47s. He was not used to seeing the jungle from this angle...

"Murdock!"

"Sorry," he answered quickly, turning and unrolling the map he'd been using. He placed it up against the skid of the chopper and held one side while Hannibal held the other. Seeing the map helped to reorient him. "We're somewhere in here," he pointed. They'd taken enemy fire. He remembered the rockets... "We were right about here when we started having problems."

"Which means we can either go north to Hue or south to Da Nang," Hannibal observed.

Murdock swallowed hard as he put the map into perspective. "Da Nang is closer. Ten clicks, maybe. We're about forty-five from the DMZ."

Out of the corner of his eye, Murdock saw BA climbing up into the chopper. What was he doing? "This is a river?" Hannibal asked, directing his attention back to the map.

"I wouldn't call it a river," Murdock answered. "It's a stream. I caught a few glimpses of it from the air but it's mostly covered over."

"We'll have water, then," Hannibal concluded. "It flows straight south."

Murdock suddenly realized they wouldn't be waiting for a rescue. Swallowing hard and pulling himself up to his full height, he made peace with the very good possibility of dying today. He wasn't going to be afraid. Fear would only slow them down, and he would sooner put a bullet in his own head than endanger the rest of his team.

"Hannibal!" The hoarse whisper made both the team's One-Zero and the pilot turn. Face was running low, head down with a weapon tucked up against his chest as he came close. Right behind him were two Nungs with eyes wide as saucers. "We gotta move!" Face whispered. "There's NVA about a hundred yards west. They heard us come down and they've got dogs."

Murdock was unprepared for the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through his veins. Hannibal didn't even flinch. "Where's Cipher?"

"Right here!" Cipher hissed back. "We got a few trackers to the north at seventy yards."

"Either of you seen?"

Both men shook their heads.

"I put a few toe poppers behind me," Face continued quickly. "But that won't hold them off."

"How many of them?"

"At least one platoon, maybe two," the young lieutenant whispered. "There's a north-south trail over there. They must've been close by already."

BA poked his head out of the chopper as if materializing out of thin air. "There's no way I'm fixin' this radio."

"Forget it," Hannibal answered, casting a long look at Bulldog as he, too, returned from a quick sweep and gave a thumbs up. "Grab the ammo and blow the guns. Let's go."

Murdock stared as BA ducked back inside and emerged only seconds later.

"Face, take point," Hannibal ordered. "BA, rear guard. Murdock, you stay with me. Are you armed?"

"Standard issue Smith & Wesson .38," Murdock answered, matching Hannibal's stride as they headed into the trees.

Hannibal laughed. He actually laughed. Amazed that anyone could laugh at a time like this, Murdock stared at him. "Do you know how to fire an M-16?"

Murdock blinked for a minute at the question Hannibal should've known the answer to. Either he wasn't thinking or Murdock was really making a complete fool of himself with his inability to hide that fear that kept creeping up the back of his neck.

"What I mean is," Hannibal corrected, reading the expression, "are you _confident_ with an M-16?"

Murdock nodded and shook his head at the same time, snapping out of his brief haze of worry to properly acknowledge the question. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

"Good."

Cipher jogged up beside them and passed an assault rifle to Hannibal, who in turn thrust it into Murdock's chest, nearly knocking him over with the force of it. "Watch your ammo," Hannibal warned. "Remember, they have more of it than we do."

Taking the proffered two extra clips, Murdock drew in a deep, calming breath and flexed his fist around the warm metal of the weapon he now held. A sudden, earth-shattering explosion behind them made his legs instantly and instinctively give out. But instead of hitting the dirt, he was jerked forward by Hannibal's firm grip on his arm. "Walk, Lieutenant," Hannibal ordered. "And don't stop."

Looking back behind him, through the trees, Murdock saw a ball of flame where the chopper had been moments before. As the gas tanks ignited, the plume of fiery smoke reached well above the first canopy and into the second. Hannibal hadn't been kidding when he'd given the order to "blow the guns" that were mounted in the back of the UH-1.

They walked single file, three feet apart, very quickly. Then, suddenly, a single shot from the back of the line instigated a well-rehearsed "about face" from everyone, in perfect sync. "Go to the back!" Hannibal yelled at Murdock as the line divided, half of them taking a step right and the other stepping left.

Trusting the order even more than his instinct, Murdock fled to what was now the back of the line and stood behind Face as the gunshots echoed through the trees. He couldn't see the enemy. All he could see was his own team. In three-round bursts of full-auto gunfire, BA sprayed the trees until his weapon was empty, then turned and ran down the center of the two lines as the next man repeated the same. Cries of pain and rattling return fire from AK-47s were lost in the confusion that followed.

"Run, Murdock!"

Murdock was already running.

He ran until he thought his lungs would burst, and then he ran harder. Then, suddenly, BA pulled up short. Murdock almost plowed right into him. They were at the edge of the stream. Gasping for air - god damn, were these M-16s always this heavy? - Murdock leaned forward, bracing on his knees. "Where...? What...?"

"Quiet!" BA ordered.

Murdock spun as he heard a sound behind him. Cipher stepped forward, followed by two Nungs. "Why are we stopping?" Murdock whispered between gasped breaths.

"It's wide open out there," Bulldog pointed out. He was out of breath too, but better at hiding it. "Not quite as bad as a road, but still dangerous."

A second later, Hannibal approached the front of the team. Drenched in sweat and breathing hard, he looked both ways. "See anything?"

"Looks clear," BA said.

"Yeah," Bulldog agreed.

How could they tell?

"Face? Cipher?"

"Clear," Cipher agreed.

"Give me a second," Face gasped, still scanning the trees.

"Come on, Face," Hannibal prodded impatiently. "You're holding us up."

"Alright, yeah. It's clear."

The rapid-fire question and answer sounded like well-rehearsed lines from a play. None of them missed a beat.

"This river runs north-south," Hannibal stated. He pointed to one of the Nungs and directed them to go on ahead at point. The order received a nod and instant obedience. "It runs west of Da Nang. But we should be able to follow it until we get as far south as we need."

Face frowned deeply. "Hannibal, you don't really expect to follow this stream for six miles."

Murdock wasn't exactly sure why following the stream was such a horrific idea - other than the fact that they would be walking through the jungle - but the look exchanged by Face and Hannibal said more than words. A whole conversation was contained in that quick glance, and Murdock wasn't privy to the contents.

"Cipher, let's go!" Hannibal called as he stepped down into the water.

Murdock looked back and saw Cipher spilling white powder along their tracks. "Right behind you," Cipher replied.

The stream was only about two feet deep, and had a rocky bottom. They walked in the water, more quietly than quickly. About a hundred yards downstream, Cipher climbed out of the water and sprinkled more white powder on the bank and a few feet into the trees. Then he returned to the creek and followed behind again, heading up the rear next to BA. Everything about their movements had suddenly changed rather dramatically from engaging the enemy to evading them. Every man on the team seemed to know this. They moved slowly now, with the utmost precision and not a single word. Terrified of making some absurdly loud noise - like slipping and splashing into the water - Murdock watched every step he made and walked no more than two feet behind Hannibal. He could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck, soaking his collar in spite of the cool water he was knee deep in.

The pained yelp of a dog from somewhere behind them made Hannibal pause and look back, but the winding curves of the stream blocked their view. More importantly, it blocked the dog's view of them. Murdock wanted to ask what the white powder was, but he didn't dare make a sound.

As they climbed back out of the water, more than an hour downstream, the careful precision continued into the jungle. Again, Murdock found himself watching every step, but his attention was equally on the trees all around him. He hadn't seen the enemy when they'd engaged before. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder if Hannibal had somehow anticipated this scenario when he'd demanded that Murdock wear camo fatigues instead of the traditional flight suit. It had seemed like an insane request at first. Now, Murdock was glad for it.

He lost track of hours. It felt like they'd walked a thousand miles when Hannibal clicked his tongue against his teeth - a sound that made the whole line stop and look at him. In the dim light of the setting sun, he pointed to a small hill on their left, overgrown with thick foliage, and made a hand gesture Murdock was not familiar with. The other men seemed to understand it perfectly. As Hannibal headed to the hill, the others swept a wide perimeter, guns ready.

"Why are we stopping?" Murdock dared to whisper as he moved up alongside Hannibal.

"Because unlike you," Hannibal whispered back, "we've been doing this for five days already. We need to sleep before we start getting sloppy."

Murdock's eyes widened. "Sleep? Here?"

"Relax, Murdock." Hannibal must have heard the fear in his voice, in spite of the fact that he was trying his damnedest to keep it suppressed. "They haven't been following us since the stream."

Trying to take comfort in the certainty of his tone, Murdock nodded slowly, took a deep and slightly trembling breath, and swallowed back the fear threatening to surface again. He could do this, he reminded himself. After all, what did he really have to lose?


	12. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

 **1970**

"You okay?"

Murdock's eyes shot open as the whisper cut through the hot, humid, unbearable silence. He'd only heard it because BA was pressed right up against his ear. All nine of them had crammed into a space so small, Murdock would've sworn it could only fit three. That was, of course, the idea. Using their rucksacks as pillows, fully dressed in their web gear, holding their weapons to their chests, they were almost piled on top of each other in the dense overgrowth.

"I'm alright," he managed to whisper back, unable to turn his head to look at the man and not sure he'd want to anyways. It was stifling even without breathing into each other's faces.

Hannibal had chosen the thickest, thorniest, most overgrown patch he could find on the side of the hill and designated which area each of them were responsible for if they should come under attack. Each one of them had a spot in which to throw grenades, and the claymore mines had been placed before they'd lie down. Murdock's weapons knowledge was limited, but he knew that those mines were not supposed to be placed quite so close to where they were hiding. Still, he understood the reasoning. They didn't want them being found further away, and alerting the NVA trackers to their position.

"You should sleep," BA advised in a low whisper.

Murdock almost laughed. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. One look at Face - covered in sweat and dirt, streaked with layers of paint and looking as though he might fall down dead with exhaustion at any moment - had been enough to convince him Hannibal was right about the need to stop for the night. But the adrenaline pouring into his system wouldn't have let him sleep even if the atmosphere had been conducive to a good night's rest. Much less in this cramped and frankly painful hiding place.

"We ain't got much food," BA continued. "Which means we gonna be moving fast the next few days."

Murdock frowned. "Shouldn't we stay put?" he asked quietly. "I mean... if the rescue crew can't find us..."

"We got no way to talk to them," BA reminded him.

"Yeah, but Covey -"

"Covey knows we went down." The interruption silenced Murdock. "But he'll sweep the crash area before he'll send anyone in. You know that. We ain't there, and we didn't have time to leave a sign for 'em, to let 'em know we're alive. There ain't no rescue crew."

Murdock drew in a calming breath of hot, sticky, stuffy air. "What about a Bright Light team?" he asked hopefully.

"They won't find us," Face said quietly, entering into the conversation from the position right in front of him. Actually, it was more on top of him, since Face was lying on his right arm. It had lost circulation hours ago. "Any trail we leave will be found by the NVA before the friendlies. We're on our own out here unless we happen to catch the attention of a fly-by. Now go to sleep."

Murdock swallowed hard. In other words, they would either make it to Da Nang... or they would die trying. Those were the only two realistic options. Add to that the fact that Murdock felt guilty as hell for what had happened in the chopper - even though the gradually-returning memories confirmed it really wasn't his fault. All things considered, he'd actually landed the chopper beautifully. They all could've easily been killed if not for his reflexes...

He was certain he'd only closed his eyes for a moment. The memory of the crash was still imprinted on his mind when he felt someone shaking him awake. "Up and at 'em, Murdock." He blinked a few times, startled, and realized that all of the men were moving, climbing out of their hiding place to greet the dim grey morning. Unlike sunrises in the States, Murdock knew from experience that once the sun came up, it would be almost instant daylight.

Breakfast was as quick and as light as they could make it - cold rice and warm, iodine-laced water. The carbs would burn off in only a few hours.

"We low on ammo," BA informed. "We ain't gonna make it through another fight."

"I still have two clips," Murdock answered quietly. He hadn't fired the M-16 once.

"Still," BA replied with a worried shake of his head, "that ain't much."

"We'll have to pick up some AKs," Hannibal concluded simply, as if AK-47s were readily available at the corner store. Leaning back on a nearby tree with a cigar in his mouth, he looked almost serene - as if he were enjoying a midday picnic. "I'm sure the NVA will be willing to donate a few."

Cipher chuckled at that. "Face? Get us some guns."

A one-fingered salute answered him, but in spite of it, Face was smirking a little as he looked the other way. Murdock glanced back and forth, realizing he'd missed the inside joke.

"Let's move out," Hannibal ordered. "The faster we move, the more likely we are to still be alive when we get to the base."

"You know what's really pissing me off about all this?" Cipher mused as he checked the area for any evidence of having been there, clearing away the last of the footprints.

"What's that?" Hannibal asked, finally rising to his feet.

"We failed the fucking mission," Cipher pointed out.

Face shrugged. "You win some, you lose some."

The casual tone earned a pointed glare from Cipher. "Oh, I'm sure that's exactly what Westman's gonna say to us."

Hannibal fastened his rucksack, casting a quick glance at the two Nungs who spoke only minimal English and gesturing for them to do the same. "Westman won't give us shit about it," he said confidently. "Peters might."

"I can't stand that guy," Cipher added with disgust. "Though he is the best dressed REMF I've seen in Vietnam."

Hannibal chuckled at the name-calling. "You ever see his record?"

Cipher frowned. "I know he's gotten a lot of infantry men killed over some pretty stupid shit."

"He was a good combat soldier once." Reduced to the role of spectator, Murdock watched in silent curiosity at the odd sort of posturing that accompanied the dispassionate argument. "But he got pretty cynical after Korea. He didn't want to be a part of this war."

"Did anybody want to be a part of this war?" Face asked, cynicism dripping from his voice.

"I volunteered," Murdock answered, shrinking back a bit as all eyes turned to him. He rubbed the sweat on the back of his neck as he smiled tightly. "But I gotta admit, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"I volunteered," Bulldog admitted hesitantly. "But I never thought that -"

The sudden sound of three gunshots cut him off instantly. The two Nung soldiers snapped to attention beside him, instantly armed with the guns that had been set beside them. Another round of three shots came from the opposite direction, and movement in the trees drew the muzzle of every weapon of RT Cannon like a giant magnet. But no one pulled a trigger until they knew for sure who it was. Luckily, Boston entered the small clearing rather than an NVA soldier, back from a quick sweep of the area, and Hannibal asked for a report almost before turning his rifle away.

"We gotta move," Boston said quickly. "There's only four of them that I can see, but they're signaling."

"I heard it," Hannibal nodded, pointing in the direction he wanted to go. The team fell immediately into formation, and Murdock drew in a breath as he steeled himself for another day.

 **1985**

"The first gate is about a quarter of a mile up," Alan stated as he lingered at the side door of the van. Just off the road and surrounded by scrub and sun-scorched trees, Hannibal was standing on top of the van and peering through binoculars in the direction of what Murdock assumed was the driveway leading to Corrolini's complex. "The guards will be armed and they have video surveillance."

"Only two guards?" Hannibal called down. Apparently, he could see them.

"That's all they need," Alan answered. "You might make it through the first gate without a problem, but you've still got two more, and they won't hesitate to open fire if they don't like the look of you."

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Face looked up at Hannibal briefly before leaning on the van, focusing his attention on Alan. "What's the protocol for getting them to open the front door?" he asked simply.

"Each person has a specific five-digit code that the guards have to put in when they enter," Alan explained. "If there's no code - or if it's a wrong code - the next gate gets alerted to open fire on the approaching vehicle."

Face shrugged. "Well, I'm sure we could persuade the guards to put the right code in for us," he said with a smile.

"You'd have to be pretty careful about it," Alan said. "There's cameras. If the guys inside see anything that looks threatening, they will be ready at the next gate. Plus, the codes are so unique, there's no way to know if they put the right five digit number in until you get to the next gate."

Murdock could think of a way. All it would take was for the guard to know one person would stay behind - with a gun - in case there was someone waiting for them at the second gate. The fear of being shot tended to make people very cooperative. The cameras could pose a bit of a problem, though.

"What vehicles are allowed in?" Hannibal asked, jumping down from the open window to the dry dirt. He handed the binoculars to Face, who glanced up at the top of the van but seemed in no hurry to climb up and take a look for himself.

"Customers come and go," Alan said uneasily. "But I don't know anything about the screening process they go through. The boosted cars are dropped off here, then the drivers are escorted back across the border to a motel. You can call a cab from there to take you to the airport. I imagine Corrolini leaves once in a while, but I've never seen him do it."

"Got a picture of any of the drivers?" Hannibal asked as Face finally turned and pulled himself up onto the runner and then the seat of the van, climbing to the roof.

"Be careful!" BA called out gruffly, coming up an improvised path he'd made to the fence. "Don't you scratch up the paint on my van!"

Face waved him off. Distracted by the exchange and dumbfounded by Hannibal's question, it took Alan a moment to shake his head in reply. "No, no pictures. Sorry."

That ruled out an impersonation.

"There's a tree about 500 yards down that we could use to get over the fence," BA reported.

"You'll have a harder time getting over the second two," Alan said. "They're topped with barbed wire and razor wire. And there's a few dogs in the outer circle. They try to bite the tires of the cars when we roll in."

"What about service personnel?" Murdock suggested.

"Yeah," BA added, "I could mess with their phone lines from out here."

"There's only specific people he allows in to do his repairs," Alan answered. "One time I remember they had a power line go down in the woods of the outer circle and Corrolini waited two days running on a backup generator because when he called, it was _his_ serviceman's day off."

As Face took his time getting a good look at the layout, Hannibal put on his gloves and headed for the chest of guns at the back of the van. Murdock and BA followed, with Alan tagging behind. "We'll split into two groups," Hannibal declared as he opened up the lockbox. "BA and I will go over the fence and try to clear the safest path from here to there. Murdock, you and Face need to get inside one of those cars and go through the gate."

"No problem," Murdock said distractedly. "We'll just fold ourselves into origami and hide in the backseat under a blanket."

"Not a bad idea," Hannibal grinned back.

Alan was shifting anxiously. "What do you want me to do?"

"You need to stay with the van," Hannibal ordered. "We'll need you on the radio for directions. You know more about this place than any of us."

Clearly disappointed that he was being kept from the action, Alan nevertheless nodded in agreement. As Face jumped down from the van, he raised a curious brow as he glanced at Murdock.

"We have a plan?" he assumed innocently.

"We need to find out if the girl is being kept here," Hannibal answered, "or if they have her elsewhere."

"I haven't got a clue where she'd be," Alan admitted. "But the only places I've ever been inside is the office and the study."

"We'll be in contact the whole time," Hannibal reminded, handing a portable radio to Murdock and one to BA. "We should be able to play it by ear. With any amount of luck -" Hannibal smiled broadly as he considered his luck. "- this could be over and done within a few hours."

 **1970**

The last twelve hours had been hell. With luck running out, none of them managed to fight off the exhaustion that led to careless mistakes. RT Cannon had been in the field for nine days; it was too long for any man to remain on constant full alert. A snapped twig under a heavy boot had sparked the current firefight, and already cost the life of one of the Nungs. BA and Bulldog had both been hit as well. BA's wounds weren't bad; one bullet shot straight through his leg and the other lodged near his right shoulder. Now, he used his other arm to fire. Bulldog's injury was more serious.

"No, I don't want it," he protested, glaring at Cipher and sobbing as the medic grabbed a morphine syrette.

"No reason to be a hero," Cipher said flatly, all business as he popped the cap off. "We gotta carry you anyways. You can't walk on a shattered femur."

"I can at least try!" The man was delirious, whether from pain, exhaustion, or both.

"Murdock!" Snapping up at Hannibal's call, Murdock almost lost his balance. Crouched next to the wounded man and the medic, Murdock was completely drained of adrenaline. Even with bullets flying all around them, he was past the point of caring.

"What?" Murdock asked as Hannibal approached quickly.

"How far did you say we were from Da Nang when we went down?"

It took a moment to remember that far back. After only four days (to the rest of the team's nine), he'd reached the sleep-deprived, adrenaline-soaked confusion where the lines between reality and nightmares blurred and everything felt like a dream.

"Ten clicks," Murdock finally answered. "We were about forty or forty-five from the DMZ. Why?"

"You're sure of that?" Hannibal asked.

"Absolutely," he lied.

Hannibal pointed straight up towards the jungle canopy above. "Then those choppers flying overhead are from Da Nang."

Murdock blinked. Choppers? He'd not even heard choppers overhead. The only thing he'd noticed for the past hour was the rapid fire of the AK-47s. Suddenly, the thought of rescue flashed across his mind for the first time in days.

"You got WP?" he asked hopefully. "So we can pop smoke?"

"No," Hannibal replied. "Not anymore."

Just as quickly, the thought of rescue was put down by the reality of their situation. "They won't see us unless we can clear some kind of LZ," he pointed out.

The rally point had drawn BA, Boston, and the remaining Nung, and they stood facing the trees as they waited for orders. "We're on a hill," Hannibal stated.

"Not much of one," Cipher observed as the sounds of Bulldog's pain ebbed with the confusion intensified by the morphine. Tossing the used syringe into the brush, Cipher rose beside Hannibal and pulled his weapon off of his shoulder, holding it at the ready again.

"Where's Face?" Hannibal spun, looking for him. "Face!"

"Here!" Face's voice called back from just on the other side of the tree line. Still firing in short bursts, he backed up towards the huddle. Murdock's grip tightened around his weapon as his eyes scanned the trees for the movement Face could certainly see if he was spending the ammo to fire at them. He wouldn't shoot if the enemy was out of range.

"What's the plan, Colonel?" Face asked, not taking his eyes from the trees. Sweat was pouring from his brow, streaking through the mud he'd used that morning in the absence of grease paint.

"Can we hold this position?" Hannibal demanded.

Cipher's eyes went wide, but it was Face's response that answered for all of them. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he asked with a tone of authoritative challenge to match his superior's.

Hannibal was unmoved. "How long?"

"Maybe five to ten minutes if we're lucky!" Face turned his head just long enough to lock stares with the Colonel. "We've got the high ground but there's no extraction coming, remember?"

Murdock had to admit "digging in" seemed senseless to him.

Hannibal seemed to debate it for just a moment, looking back and forth into the trees and at his men. Then, with a determination and authority of a man expecting to be obeyed without question, he gave his order. "BA and Wo-" The Nung's head spun around as Hannibal called his name. "- you're coming with me. We're gonna break for the camp."

Murdock's eyes went wide. Breaking for the camp meant a lengthy sprint through the jungle and there was no doubt the enemy was present all around them. But Hannibal's tone left no room for argument. "Murdock, you and Boston go back up to the top of this hill and find the clearest spot you can. Try and make a slash and burn. The rest of you cover the area up there."

Still gaping, Murdock finally found his voice. "You're splitting us up?" That sounded like suicide. He wasn't even sure which of the two groups was in more danger!

Hannibal's eyes narrowed as he stepped in closer. "Look Murdock," he growled, his formidable patience finally at an end, "Bulldog cannot run, and there is no way we're going to make it if we try to carry him. We need an extraction. And in order for an extraction to happen, we need some kind of an LZ. So get to it!"

The reality of the do-or-die plan was terrifying. If Hannibal's team didn't make it to the base - a very real possibility, given the number of enemy in the area - the team would be stranded on the top of the hill. They'd all end up dead. At the same time, if the others didn't succeed in creating enough of a clearing for at least a McGuire rig to be dropped down, they'd never get off the hill even if the team made it back to base. They would all need an awful lot of luck on their side. And their luck was dwindling...

Accepting fate for what it was worth, they moved without thought, without feeling. Murdock and Cipher tried to stay between Face and Boston as they carried a semi-conscious Bulldog between them. Murdock couldn't imagine the pain that the man was in, even with the morphine that Cipher had given him. Not that it would matter much in another hour if this plan didn't work...

They found a patch of sky between the jungle trees. It wasn't open enough for a helicopter, but they could drop a rig. As long as the rescue chopper could find them, they had a chance. Immediately, they set to work chopping at the vines and growth, firing at the rustling trees as the enemy closed in on all sides. The VC had stopped firing for the most part; they knew the team was completely surrounded, and preferred to take them alive. With ammunition low, Murdock became keenly aware of the fact they were counting bullets.

"You still haven't fired that .38, right?" Bulldog asked weakly.

Murdock looked down at the man whose wounds were still oozing blood in spite of the fact Cipher had patched them to the best of his ability. "Right. Why?"

Bulldog's eyes slid closed. "I won't get taken alive, man," he whispered. "Don't let me get taken alive. Fucking hurts too much..."

Murdock stared at him. He had mixed feelings about the request. He'd heard the same stories of torture and mutilation Bulldog inevitably had. An American POW was a prize that would be heavily rewarded by the NVA. God only knew what would happen to them then - especially if the enemy discovered that two of them were officers. But at the same time, Murdock had seen successful POW rescues. He had confidence in his team. As long as Hannibal was alive, he wouldn't abandon them unless they were dead.

Like Alan...

The consideration caught him so off guard, he almost lost reality for a moment. He was brought back abruptly by Face's approach. "That's it," he declared. "We're completely dry. Bullets, grenades, everything."

Murdock swallowed hard as he saw Boston coming in close as well. Face's eyes were lingering on the weapon Murdock held in his hand. For just a moment, their gazes locked. "Don't do it," Face said flatly.

It was all he said.

Murdock nodded slowly and in the face of Bulldog's protests, handed the gun to the younger Lieutenant. As the evening shadows crept closer, Face turned and held the gun out in front of him. Murdock wasn't sure how he could even see his targets. He fired all six shots, each in a very different direction, then dropped the gun, put up his hands and yelled, " _Chu hoi_!" into the foliage.

The pistol hit the ground with a thud and suddenly, it was silent. The shooting had stopped completely. Too exhausted to even feel fear, Murdock stood. He took a few steps away from the wounded man who was spending the last of his energy cursing Face. Without a word, he moved with Boston to Face's right as Cipher approached and stood to his left. Still and silent, they stood shoulder to shoulder and watched the advancing enemy filter through the trees.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

 **1985**

Alan had reassured Face and Murdock it wouldn't be difficult to spot the stolen car when it stopped for gas at the station where all the vehicles were supposed to refuel before crossing the border. Concealing his own uncertainty, Face watched the parking lot from the safety of a few scraggly trees for almost an hour before _any_ vehicle pulled up and refueled. Eyeing the pristine, dark green sedan warily, Face cast a long look at the driver with the black leather jacket and deeply furrowed brow.

"Think that's it?" he asked Murdock.

"How should I know?" Murdock answered, picking at the bark of the tree beside him.

Face sighed audibly. "Moody and brooding" did not suit Murdock, and Face was starting to get annoyed by his apparent disinterest in a charity case he - unlike Face - had voted to take. Letting the irritation roll off his back, Face focused again on the vehicle as the driver headed inside. He didn't really know enough about cars to guess the make or model of the sedan, let alone the year. But the condition it was in - freshly washed and glittering in spite of the dusty roads - was a good indication the driver had a purpose.

The absolute refusal of the station attendant to make eye contact with the man wandering around the store suggested he was used to looking the other way. Through the window and from a safe distance, Face looked for any proof that this was the man they were waiting for before finally resigning himself to the uncertainty. "Well, if it's not," he muttered, rising to his feet, "we'll probably be halfway to Mexico City before we know differently."

Looking both ways to make sure no one was around, Face moved quickly to the car while the driver was preoccupied at the counter. He didn't hear Murdock rise or follow behind him, but was certain he had. They didn't have much time, and it only took a few seconds to determine the only place to hide was inside the trunk. With nothing in the backseat to duck under, their options were limited. While Murdock watched the store, waiting anxiously for the driver to finish his chat with the attendant, Face found the latch for the trunk inside the car and it popped open. Thankfully, there was nothing in the trunk, either. But it would still be a tight fit.

"You sure you're gon' be able to get this thing open from the inside?" Murdock asked as the two of them stood at the back of the car.

A quick exchange of uncertain glances, and they were out of time. The driver was paying for his purchases. Murdock ducked down and climbed into the trunk, pressing himself as deep inside as he could to give Face room.

"Tight fit" didn't begin to describe it. It was also stifling hot and as the trunk closed down on top of them, pitch black. Face breathed slow, not sure how much air they would have and well-aware that they could be in here for a while. He could already feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead and the back of his neck. Closing his eyes was no different from leaving them open; he couldn't see a thing. Confined and distinctly uncomfortable, he struggled to find something positive about this situation to focus on. Nothing came to mind, and he finally settled on being grateful for the fact that at the moment, Murdock's fear of the dark was not rearing its head. With a slow, calming breath, Face forced both his mind and body to relax as the car engine started, and they pulled away from the station.

 **1970**

Huddled on the floor of a dark, rancid, muggy cell, Murdock afforded a few moments of calm introspection to consider what he had learned from this experience. It took a POW camp to make him realize he'd never known fear. Hunger had also taken on new meaning. But most importantly, this experience had taught him there were things worse than death.

The first few days hadn't been terrible. They weren't the only Americans in the camp, and they'd been kept together. There was comfort in numbers. Hannibal - who'd been caught in the run for the camp - was with them. He would come up with a plan, Murdock thought. He always came up with a plan.

A few brushes with the camp's commander - a Captain Thanh Dai - bloodied them all. Bulldog's leg turned purple and swelled up to three times its normal size. Words like "field amputation" were whispered, but Murdock didn't know if they ever went through with it. Before the determination had to be made, he was removed from the crowded bamboo cage.

His captors hadn't provided a reason for his segregation, though he had his suspicions. Most likely, they'd somehow discovered or simply deduced he was a pilot. That made him valuable, on some level. Unless they determined the rest of the team was SOG, they were less so. Knowing this, he counted on his team to keep their affiliation under their hats.

When he was taken away, he hadn't realized it would be the last time he saw them. It should've been a routine beating, and it received the routine "hang in there" gazes from each man in turn. But instead of being taken to the hut where those tortures were routinely carried out, Murdock was led away, to a man and a truck and a long, blindfolded drive that ended at fortified prison - Son Tay.

Since that day, he'd not seen another living soul except for the rare interrogation session. And he wasn't entirely sure those men who screamed at him in Vietnamese even had souls. There was an English-speaking officer here, who had once attempted to play "good cop", but that must have been months ago now. Murdock hadn't spoken to anyone - not a single word - in ages.

Time was a blur. He neither knew, nor cared how long it had been since he'd been deposited in this hell hole. Alone in the dark, hot, cement cell, with a daily ration of rice and dirty water provided by a silent hand. He'd not seen the sun for... weeks? Months? Years? He couldn't tell. In the beginning, he'd counted the number of times they brought him food, figuring that they did so once a day. But he'd lost track, and realized it didn't really matter anyway. He was here to stay and he would die here. Until then, he would wait to die.

At first, he'd thought it would be quick. More than once in those first few weeks, he'd huddled in the far corner of the pitch-black cell in a shallow pool of his own blood, bleeding from his back where the bamboo cane of the small jungle camp had shredded his flesh. Those wounds had healed now, and the infections that had been the far greater threat than the blood loss had been miraculously staved off by his body's immune system and his careful attention to protect them from obvious contaminants. The wounds were occasionally replaced by new ones, but all in all, the interrogators here were much more creative than to simply hit their prisoners with sticks...

Lying on the cement floor in the darkness, he traced invisible designs on the wall with his finger. Sometimes, he had no idea where he was. Most of the time, he remembered only bits and pieces of how he'd gotten here. Reality and fiction melded into the same hellish existence long ago and it was difficult to tell which memories were from his own life and which he'd seen in a movie somewhere or read in a book. He'd always had something of an overactive imagination.

Right now, he was imagining himself as a Prehistoric hunter, hiding in a dark cave as he waited for his prey to pass by at the opportune moment. In one smooth move, he shifted to a crouched position, forearms on his knees.

"The mighty hunter awaits the arrival of the savage beast inhabiting the dark and dangerous cave." He gasped, spinning around. "What! What's that! It is the beast! He has returned from his kill. And he is about to become... the prey!"

Murdock crept forward, using his hands as a guide though he knew the dark cell by heart. It was six short paces in any direction before he would hit the wall. "Slowly, the brave hunter moves in for the kill and with only a large rock for a weapon against the beast's powerful jaws... he attacks!"

Leaping a full two feet up and over, Murdock landed in a crouched position and wrestled with the enormous invisible foe. Showering the silence with cries of savage rage, he fought until at last, he was victorious! With the vicious pretend-beast finally vanquished, he rose to his feet and, although he couldn't quite stand up straight in the six-foot cell, stretched his arms out before beating his chest with a loud Tarzan-like yell.

Then the game was over, the silence descended, and he was bored again. Bored and alone with only racing thoughts to keep him company. Those thoughts had long ago become too confused to make any kind of sense. It had been so long since he'd seen or heard anything not self-initiated, he almost wished his captors would come interrogate him again, just so he'd have some kind of human contact. Sighing deeply, he sat down against the far wall and traced more designs, like cave etchings in the stone.

More days passed, more weeks, more "meals", which were little more than dirty water with maggots and a few grains of rice. For the millionth time, as he polished off the last of another feast, he wondered what had ever become of the rest of his team. The day he'd been blindfolded was the last time he saw daylight - the last time he'd seen anything, actually. Even the interrogators kept him blindfolded when they came for him. The last thing he could really remember seeing was... somebody. He frowned deeply.

"That's pretty bad if you can't remember his name."

Alan's voice cut through the dark silence - an auditory hallucination or an honest-to-God ghost, it didn't make much difference. Murdock sighed, shutting his useless eyes and leaning back against the hard, scratchy wall. "I remember it," he defended. "I just... can't think of it."

"If you remember it," Alan challenged, "what was it?"

Damn it, why couldn't he remember names? He remembered faces... vaguely... "Face!" he cried. "His name was Face." How could he have forgotten that?

Snorting a brief and unimpressed acknowledgment, Alan continued, not willing to be outdone. "What about the others?"

Murdock frowned. "What about them?"

"Do you remember their names?"

No, Murdock realized instantly. He didn't. Sometimes he did, when he thought hard enough. Most of the time, he tried not to think about them, about how they must have died, about the pain and degradation they undoubtedly suffered.

With a heavy sigh, he banged the back of his head against the cement wall a few times, just for the hell of it. "What does it matter?" he whispered. "I'm never going to see them again."

The challenging tone of Alan's voice dropped into a more serious, instructive one. "It matters because the longer you can hold on to the little pieces of who you are and what your life was before this, the better your chances of putting it all back together again."

Laughing out loud, Murdock stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned forward to touch his toes. "Oh, please. My life ain't goin' nowhere. I ain't ever gon' see the outside of this room again an' you know it. I'll die here." He sat up and stared into the darkness as his smile fell. "Just like you did."

"It's the little things that don't matter that will keep you strong."

Murdock rubbed his bare feet on the cement floor, scrunching his toes a few times. The scratchy texture of the ground beneath him helped to visualize it even without sight. He wondered, in the back of his mind, if this was how blind people saw things.

He slept again, ate again. This time, he couldn't keep it down. Not for the first time, the squiggling, rotten mush hit his stomach and came right back up. He hated it when that happened, not least because it meant he had to taste the vile concoction twice.

"What does it matter if I'm strong?" he challenged his silent companion, desperate for company as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spit a few times on the floor. It would dry, just like the vomit would. The entire floor was coated with dried bodily fluids of one kind or another. His sense of smell was overpowered by them every time he drew in a breath. "I'm never getting out of here and you know it."

"Hannibal has pulled off some pretty daring rescues." Alan's tone was almost hopeful. It sounded wrong, even in Murdock's own head. "Why do you think he wouldn't come for you, of all people?"

Murdock leaned heavily on the wall for support as his stomach gradually stopped wrenching. "If he was gonna come, he woulda done it already," he said weakly. Hannibal. He hadn't heard that name in a while. But then, it had to be at least a dozen meals since the last time he'd given thought to any of his team. "Besides, I'm sure he's long dead by now."

He sighed with a detached sort of indifference at that thought. Although he could imagine how they'd died if he wanted to, he distinctly didn't want to picture it.

"You're not dead yet," Alan pointed out.

Murdock considered that. Was he dead? Maybe he was still breathing, but in an ever-growing sense of the word, he was getting more and more "dead" every time he opened and shut his eyes and saw nothing but stifling hot, thick darkness. He could feel his sense of reality slipping through his fingers like sand, and he watched it go with an utterly amused fascination. So this was what it looked like when someone lost their mind...

"Hey, Alan?" he said quietly, his voice cracking a bit with uneasiness.

"Yeah?"

"Remember how Dad always used to call me crazy?"

"Uh huh."

Murdock paused a moment and took a deep breath of stale, putrid air. The smell in this room - the smell of his own body - was almost enough to make him gag every time he breathed. The walls were closing in. He was running out of air. "I think maybe he was right..."

 **1985**

A bit claustrophobic and drenched in sweat, Murdock was surprised he wasn't hearing more complaints from the other man crammed into the trunk with him. Once they were parked, it was up to Face - with a flashlight in his teeth and a pick in his fingers - to open the locked trunk from the _inside_. Murdock wasn't exactly sure how this was possible, but if anyone could do it, it would be Face. So he waited, breathing slow to savor the waning oxygen.

After several minutes of quiet work, Face let out a few choice words under his breath. Murdock was beginning to worry. "You _sure_ you can do this Face?"

An irritated growl answered him, and Murdock heard the pop after a few more minutes of fumbling. Thank God. Murdock breathed in the rush of much cooler air, filling his lungs to capacity before letting out a deep sigh. The world outside was dim, but still seemed blinding to their eyes, which had already adjusted for the dark. As they climbed out, Murdock noticed why Face had reverted to the cursing: his hand was bleeding.

"How'd you do that?" Murdock asked, inspecting the deep gash on his finger.

Face answered him with a sarcastic look, but didn't speak. The question was rhetorical anyways. While Face looked for something to wrap his bleeding hand, Murdock grabbed the walkie talkie off his belt and turned it on. "A-Team One is inside the wire, copy?"

Alan's voice answered him almost immediately. "Copy, A-Team One, this is base. You're in the garage?"

Murdock glanced around, taking everything in. There were three cars parked in the immaculately clean, otherwise bare room. Two looked like sports cars, and one was the sedan they'd rode in with. Although he didn't recognize the make or model of the sparkling clean cars, he imagined they were all exotic in some way.

"Looks that way," he answered.

"The house is to your north," Alan informed. "You should be able to see it from inside."

"Watch those cameras," Face warned. Murdock glanced up in the direction that he was pointing and saw the camera in the top corner of the room. Its double, stationary and pointed at the garage door, was fixed in the opposite corner. Standing right up against the wall and almost near the cameras, Murdock and Face were probably just out of the lenses' peripheral view.

Murdock hugged the wall as he passed underneath the one to the right, and stopped at a window overlooking a large, well-kept lawn. He hadn't thought lawns could grow like that down here. An enormous house loomed over the few trees, built almost like a castle with dark brown trim and off-white walls. Murdock studied the intimidating building for a long moment. Somewhere inside was someone who knew where they could find a scared teenage girl. Maybe she was even in there. They certainly had the security to keep her there. He wondered what she looked like, what she was thinking, if she had reached that point of hopeless resignation to her fate. He hoped not. At least if she had, he hoped that she would be able to snap out of it when she saw that someone had, in fact, come for her.

The silent minutes stretched as they watched the house, waiting for the comings and goings, the lights in the windows to illuminate shadows as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon. Finally, positioned at the window but clearly bored, Face sighed audibly. "Man, this sure wasn't how I was planning on spending this weekend."

Sitting on the floor between the cars, Murdock blinked slowly, resisting the urge to agree enthusiastically. This was far from how he'd planned on this weekend going, too. With everything in place for a nice relaxing getaway with Kelly, he'd been sure nothing could go wrong once they actually made it all the way to the secluded cabin. He should've still been there, tucked away and enjoying the company...

"Come on, Murdock," Face pleaded, startling Murdock out of his silent thoughts. Glancing up, he saw Face's eyes trained on him now.

Innocently, Murdock raised a brow and hummed a quiet, "Hmm?"

"The silent brooding doesn't suit you," Face replied. "You've hardly said a word since the restaurant."

Murdock rubbed the back of his neck, diverting his gaze. Face didn't want to sit here in silence, and that was understandable. But what was there to say? He definitely didn't want to talk about the thoughts that were really on his mind, and they interrupted any attempts to talk - or even think - about anything else. But Face was still staring at him, waiting for an answer, an explanation.

"I keep trying to pretend like it's okay," Murdock finally said quietly, hoping he wouldn't have to explain that statement in detail. "But it's not okay. None of this is okay."

"Why?" Face asked sincerely. The look in his eyes was vaguely akin to worry. Trying to ignore it, Murdock pulled his knees up to his chest in an effort to make himself smaller.

"I mean, I know it was a shock and the guy is a bit of a jackass," Face continued. "But you're usually a lot better at just letting it roll off."

"Sometimes I have dreams," Murdock replied without thinking too much about what he was saying. If he thought about it, he would talk himself out of it. He'd learned that much from hours and hours of talking to therapists. Better to just let the words come and think about the implications later. "I wake up and for a while, I'm not sure what's really real."

"Everyone gets that, Murdock," Face sighed, offering his best effort and consolation.

Murdock cast a long, pleading look at Face, wishing he could understand this without having it explained. "I feel like I'm in a dream, Face," he admitted. "Like this is the part that's not real and I'm going to wake up and when I do, I'm gonna realize I'm back in that black hole, waiting to -"

"You're not," Face interrupted firmly, forcefully countering the words with as much conviction and serious determination as Murdock had ever heard.

With a sigh, Murdock shook his head to clear it. "Yeah, I know," he lied. "It's just... that's where his voice takes me, in my head."

"Why?" Still hard and distinctly colder now that his own memories had been triggered, Face's voice was somehow comforting in the confusion, like an anchor that wasn't easily broken loose. "That was a long time ago, Murdock, and it didn't have anything to do with Alan."

"Yeah, but it did," Murdock protested, leaning forward to cradle his head in his hands. "He was at Son Tay."

"Not necessarily at the same time you were," Face answered quickly.

Murdock shook his head. "No, no, I mean that's where he started talking to me." Glancing up in time to see Face's hard expression turn to one of confusion, Murdock sighed. "In the dark, solitary confinement, you hear things. And I heard him all the time."

Face looked away, shifting uncomfortably. He didn't like talking about that time in their past any more than Murdock did.

"Thing is, he never stopped," Murdock finished quietly. "I still hear his voice in my head and I was never supposed to hear it for real again. I've got it all wrapped up in the crazy from the black hole and I..." He swallowed hard and shook his head, looking away again. "I don't think about that crazy; I don't let it out. But when he's here, talking with that voice, it's like the crazy from the dark is in the real world."

Face sighed audibly, shaking his head in the long silence that followed. "You shouldn't be here," he finally concluded, and Murdock hid his face in shame.

"No, I'm okay," he tried to justify. "I can do this, whatever it is we're doing here. This is the easy part."

Casting a wary glance down at him, Face carefully evaluated the sincerity of Murdock's forced smile.

"This is what we do," Murdock finished. "And I don't have to think about it. This is easy. The hard part is gonna be looking him in the face again." Letting the smile fall, he closed his eyes and rested his head back against the car behind him before finishing under his breath. "He ain't supposed to be here."

"He is here," Face said calmly, patiently. "That's reality, like it or not."

"Yeah, I know," Murdock sighed. "But that's what makes it like a dream."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

 **1970**

"Ever wonder what it would be like if we had wings?" Murdock asked, sprawling on the floor of the rancid cell with his bare feet straight up on the wall.

"If we had wings, we could fly," Alan mused.

Murdock frowned. "If we had wings, we'd be trapped birds inside a cage," he pointed out. But then he smiled as he considered another option. "Unless we were really little birds. Then we could fly out the little hole in the door where they stick the food."

He had tried to fit through that hole, but he was too big. He could only get an arm through.

"What color birds would we be?" Alan asked.

Footsteps on the other side of the door, echoing down the long hallway, cut Murdock's thoughts off abruptly. Instantly, Alan retreated into the nothingness, finding somewhere else to hide, somewhere far away. Left alone in the cell, Murdock rose to his feet with some trepidation. It was not mealtime; he'd already had his banquet only a few hours ago. The interrogators had been in to see him just two meals ago and it seemed strange they would be returning so quickly. Perhaps they were just bored. A shiver ran through him in spite of the stifling heat, and he clenched his fists tight, as though somehow hiding the evidence of their last amusement on the excruciatingly fragile nerves beneath fingernails might prevent them from getting the idea to experiment again.

The lock in the cell door turned, and Murdock raised his arm to cover his eyes against the blinding light of the flashlights which always preceded the blindfold. There were only two colors in his world - black and searing, agonizing white. He'd learned the very first time they'd shined those damned things at him that even with his lids closed, the darkness turned to a bright white glow as the light came through his eyelids.

 __" _Dung_!" a rough voice snapped at him in Vietnamese.

Mustering up some kind of courage - or maybe it was simply insanity - he smiled at the man he couldn't see. "Well, hello! To whom do I owe the pleasure this time?" Although keenly aware that he was about to be tortured, the friendly greeting was not entirely feigned. Oh, for the company of another living creature! He would gladly face whatever hells there might be.

 __" _Yen lan, lon_!"

Murdock ignored both the insult and the order to shut up. This man was unfamiliar to him and Murdock wondered if he spoke any English. He certainly didn't have a clue that his prisoner spoke Vietnamese. That was an ace Murdock had managed to keep up his sleeve.

"I don't get many visitors down here, you know," he rambled as the blindfold was tied around his eyes. His hands were cuffed in front of him just a few seconds later. He gave no thought to struggling. "It's not a bad little hotel with all things considered. Room service is always prompt, comfortable beds. Housekeeping leaves something to be desired, though. The room was a little dirty when I checked in this morning."

Without any response, the man shoved him forward. Blind and weakened by starvation, Murdock stumbled out into the long, familiar hallway. He was barely able to walk beyond the first few paces, and had to use the wall beside him for support. A gun at his back shoved him down the long walkway to the right.

"Hey, do you know any good restaurants in town?" he questioned weakly. The closer he came to The Room, the more his stomach fluttered with nervous, dreadful anticipation. "I've got a real taste for a great big hamburger and some steak fries. Know where I can get one of those?"

Pain was coming, in unfathomable amounts, and there was nothing he could say or do to make it less. The questions they asked, in a language he wasn't supposed to know, didn't even make sense. They thought he was an American soldier. Really, he was just a madman on vacation who'd ended up here by mistake. And the majestic scenery had come so highly recommended by the travel agent...

Fifteen steps, turn right, twenty-three steps, turn left and wait for the door to The Room to be opened. The path was familiar and well-rehearsed. But this time when Murdock stopped, his escort ran right into him. As the guard cursed furiously at him for stopping when he'd not been ordered to do so, Murdock stood there in confusion. When the gun jammed into his ribs and shoved him so hard he sprawled across the hallway, he scrambled for clarity amidst the confusion he hid behind in times like these.

Rough hands jerked him back up to his feet. The barrel of an AK-47 pushed him along. No longer sure where he was going, he fell instantly and completely silent as his confused thoughts raced. He wasn't a tourist; that was a reality - a personality, even - he'd invented to hide behind. Nor was he an explorer in the black abyss of space or traipsing through various eras of history. He wasn't blind or dead or even properly alive. He was a prisoner of war and something was different.

Was this it? The sudden thought of death caught him off guard. Were they taking him out to dispose of him? It would not be the first time POWs were lined up and shot, Geneva Convention or no. Technically, this wasn't even classified as a war - a fact the NVA exploited when it came to the legal technicalities. They did not have "prisoners of war" because there was no war; instead, they had spies and insurgents, who were prosecuted according to their laws.

Murdock was so caught up in his racing thoughts, he lost count of his footsteps. The slight temperature change was only a degree or two cooler as he was driven outside, but his senses had been heightened by the sensory deprivation for so long that it might as well have been twenty. The shouting of soldiers, the rush of a breeze rustling the trees in the surrounding area, the sound of footsteps squishing in the mud all made him dizzy. He felt the sun hit his skin - it burned so hot it almost made him cry out in surprise and pain - and stumbled forward until he fell forward into the scalding metal of a truck, trapping his hands against the vehicle. He didn't dare cry out.

 _"Nhan duoc ben tong!"_ the guard ordered, and Murdock obediently climbed into the back bed of the truck.

Confused, he huddled into the corner where he was shoved, cuffed hands in his lap. He struggled to make himself as small as possible, breathing in air that was fresher than he'd savored in... he didn't know how long. Was this the last reprieve before death? Where were they taking him? Maybe he was already dead, or making this all up for a place to hide while the sadistic torturers did unspeakable things to his body in another universe...

He gave no thought to removing the blindfold, even though he could have easily reached it. Instead, he just sat still, confused thoughts racing as the truck pulled away, jostling and bouncing him around. He tried to press tightly against the wall, to keep from flailing all over like a ragdoll. With his hands still tied, he didn't have the best chance of keeping his balance if he gave up the support of the two walls in the corner.

As the truck jolted and loudly groaned its way through the camp, he realized he wasn't alone. It occurred to him to wonder if the others were Vietnamese or other American prisoners. But he thought it best to say nothing. Not that he had much to say anyway. They were all about to die, he was fairly certain. Best to save his last words for something really good. What did he want his last words to be, anyway?

Indistinguishable conversation from the front of the truck signaled the required stop at the camp gate. Then, starting off again, they headed in an unknown direction. How far would they go? Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't an execution after all. What if they were transferring him to another camp? His heart lightened for an instant before sinking to new depths as he realized it probably wouldn't be an improvement over his little solitary cell. At least in the darkness, he had Alan to talk to.

"Murdock, you look like hell."

The words, in a language he'd not heard for almost as long as he could remember, startled him. Not immediately sure if anyone else around him had heard what he just had, he hesitated to reply. "You speak English?" he finally managed, trying to get his bearings. It was beyond comprehension that the speaker actually knew his name.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump nearly a foot. So acutely aware of every sense other than the sight he had been so long deprived of, he had been expecting a subtle hint of a presence rather than a firm grip.

"It's okay, Murdock," the unfamiliar voice said comfortingly. "You're safe."

Safe? His thoughts raced. How was he safe? Who was that voice and why could he _feel_ him just as clearly as hear him? He wasn't used to being able to feel his hallucinations, and it was unnerving. Drawing in a determined breath, he reached up to remove the blindfold and confront the emptiness he was sure would be waiting for him when he took a proper look around.

"No no no, don't do that," another voice cut him off quickly, grabbing his hands and lowering them back down to his lap. "You've been locked in the dark for almost six months. You'll burn your retinas out if you take that blindfold off right now."

Murdock shook his head in bewilderment. Six months? Questions were forming out of the confusion, but he didn't even know how to ask. "How...?" he began uncertainly, but couldn't finish. It took several tries before he had words. "Who are you?"

"Aw, come on, Murdock." The low tenor of that smug voice made him straighten. "You didn't really think we wouldn't come for you."

Scarcely daring to draw in a breath lest the spell should be broken, Murdock worked his jaw a few times before managing a weak, "Hannibal?"

"Sorry it took so long, kid," Hannibal answered with true regret. "We had a hell of a time finding you."

"Here," the owner of the first voice interrupted, removing his hand from Murdock's shoulder and placing a pill in his hand. "Take this."

"Cipher?" Murdock guessed, not sure he dared hope for an answer.

"Vitamin D," Cipher replied, ignoring the question. The sound of his voice, suddenly unmistakable in its familiarity, was enough to confirm the hopeful suspicions. Closing his fist around the pill, Murdock realized his hands were shaking. An instant later, the rope fell from around them and he was free. Still blind, he was now shaking with... what? Fear? No. Excitement? Maybe. But still so much confusion...

"Drink," BA ordered, placing a bottle of water against his hand. Without thinking, Murdock ripped the top of it off with such enthusiasm, he almost lost the pill in his other hand. Gulping down the fresh, _clean_ water, he half-drowned trying to swallow as fast as he was pouring.

"Pill," Cipher reminded, and he dropped it in his mouth between swallows.

When the bottle was empty and Murdock was gasping for breath, he dropped it on the bed of the truck and held on as they passed over a particularly rough spot in the road. Maybe he was just dreaming, but if so, it was the nicest dream he'd had in a very long time.

"I thought you were dead!" he cried.

"Yeah, well, we thought the same 'bout you." BA sounded angry.

Murdock was almost too stunned to respond. Shaking his head again, he stammered a few times before finding words, tripping over them in his excitement. "How did you...? Who's driving this thing!"

"That's Giap," Hannibal explained as they jostled over the bumps. "We borrowed him from the LLDB."

Murdock felt his chest tighten with a feeling of anticipation that he'd become completely unfamiliar with in the past few months. "You mean... he's with us?" He was almost afraid to believe what he was hearing, but the longer the dream went on, the more sense it began to make.

"He's with us," Hannibal confirmed. "You're safe, Murdock. Now we just need to get you fixed up, and you'll be on your way back home."

Murdock realized he was shaking all over. Home. He never thought he would hear that word again. He was going home. Home to chicken dinners and apple pie and brewed coffee and American cigarettes and real, live, English-speaking people! With tears quickly soaking the protective blindfold, he pulled his knees up close to his chest, leaned over them, and sobbed loudly with complete and utter relief.

 **1985**

In the uncomfortable silence of the garage where Face and Murdock waited for any indication of the movements in and around Corrolini's mansion, Face took a few minutes to admire the cars. Avoiding the cameras, he was particularly interested in the one furthest to the left - a 1983 Corvette. More accurately, it was _the_ 1983 Corvette. Only 40-something prototypes of the model had been made, and only one had survived. If Face was right, and this was the only one of its kind, they'd stolen it out of the National Corvette Museum in Kentucky. Face did his best not to drool over the polished white finish. He might not have known much about cars, but he seemed to have done his research on the one very much like his own.

It seemed Alan was right about the rarity of the cars. Murdock didn't really know or care what kind of market there really was for such things. He just wanted to get the girl and get out of here. The waiting was killing him slowly, but he knew it would be safer to approach the house in the dark. Besides, the longer they watched, the better indication they had of who might be inside. They still had no idea if Corrolini was home, but the man who'd driven them hadn't come out yet so the house was certainly not empty.

"A-Team One to Base," Face called into the walkie talkie, peering back out the window. The setting sun made the shadows too thick to see the house clearly, and it was just about time to move.

It only took a few seconds for Alan's voice to return the call on the otherwise silent channel. "Go ahead, One."

"We haven't seen any patrols around the house," Face reported. "Nobody coming or going since the guy who brought us in here."

Sitting between the cars, carefully avoiding the cameras, Murdock suddenly realized he was hungry when his stomach rumbled. With a sigh, he stood and brushed himself off before joining Face at the window.

"You probably won't meet up with any patrols," Alan informed over the radio. "Corrolini likes his technology - cameras and alarms. Though armed security will come if you trip any of them."

Face took a moment to glance at Murdock, the silent question passing between them with a nod. Both were anxious to do something more than sit here and watch and now that night was falling, they could move about more safely.

"Where is Corrolini likely to be?" Face asked, tapping gently on the windowpane. The door wasn't an option for getting out of the garage; the cameras were pointed straight at it. But the windows didn't appear alarmed. Handing the radio over to Murdock, Face unlatched one and slid it open before lifting the screen out and setting it on the floor.

"There are three big windows on the ground floor," Alan reported. "The closest one to the back door looks down a hallway with a stairwell going up to the second floor. The smaller window on the second floor, just to the left of the hallway window, that's Corrolini's office. He spends most of his time in there."

Murdock identified the window easily. It wasn't exactly easily accessible, but it was dark. They would be able to have a snoop around.

"We placed charges near the guard shack at the second gate," Hannibal cut in unexpectedly. "If you need a distraction, we've got them hooked to a remote detonator."

"Copy," Face answered with a smile. "We're going in, so we'll be offline."

"Be careful," Alan offered just before Face turned the volume on the walkie talkie all the way down, cutting them off from the rest of the team. Then, exchanging quick glances with Murdock, he jumped up and through the open window.

Murdock followed behind, staggering a few steps on the grass before he found his footing. Face was already scanning the perimeter, pressed against the brick wall of the garage. The sprawling lawn was empty and almost eerie in the dim light. Other than the lights in the windows on the main floor, none of which illuminated any shadows or profiles, there were no signs of life.

Keeping low, Murdock followed Face across the open lawn to the mansion, so close he almost stepped on his heels. They skirted around the holly bushes and up against the wall, just right of the large picture window.

"There's cameras in the trees," Face said quietly, pointing out three of them. One was aimed directly at the back door, effectively sealing off the obvious entrance. After checking a few windows and finding them all locked and alarmed, their options diminished even further. More importantly, several of the rooms on the first floor were occupied.

Murdock looked up at the six-inch ledge winding around the building just under the windows of the second story. Casting a quick glance at Face, he knew they were considering the same possibility. Around the corner, they found what they were looking for - a vine trellis that looked like it could possibly hold their weight. Starting to feel the buzz of energy as he considered the danger of getting caught, the thrill of climbing up to trespass on the privacy of a threatening megalomaniac, Murdock couldn't help but smile as he gave a nod to Face.

"After you," he whispered politely, with a gesture inviting him to go first.

 **1971**

Winter seemed especially cold. "Home" seemed especially lonely. Standing still and silent at the window of the hotel room he'd been living in for almost two months, Murdock held a cigarette in one hand and a near-empty bottle of vodka in the other. He'd removed the sling almost as soon as he'd set foot back on American soil, not wanting to advertise his injuries. A fracture in his arm hadn't broken all the way through the bone, and had healed itself sometime during his captivity. The same was true of several cracked ribs. Nobody needed to know how they'd been broken.

The money would run out soon, and although he'd tried three times in as many weeks, he couldn't seem to hold down a job for more than a day or two. The war had changed him more than any of these hippie bastards could know, and he was beginning to seriously doubt if he would ever fit in again. It frightened him to think he might've been one of those hippies had he not gone over. He might've even been involved in a few protests, holding blood drives for the NVA and waving anti-American banners. But since he'd been spared that fate, and since the general population wanted nothing to do with him as a result, the best course of action was simply to lock himself in a dark room and watch life from the window through a haze of numbing drunkenness.

His body still bore the scars of Vietnam, and the youth of America spoke a language foreign to him, littered with intonations of carefree naiveté and ignorant bliss. He hated them for it. Maybe when the B-52 bombers were done with Vietnam, they could come back over here and make craters out of these goddamn universities where the traitorous fuckers hung VC flags in the classrooms filled with whining brats whose education amounted to little more than draft evasion.

Anger was part of the grieving process, he'd been told.

He took a shot of vodka from the bottle, savoring the burn on its way down. The overcast day was easy on eyes that still hadn't completely healed from prolonged disuse. He'd only just stopped having to use the sunglasses when he was forced to slip out of the room and to the liquor store on the corner. The glasses had attracted a few stares, since he only went out at night when he was less likely to meet anyone sober enough to hold a conversation. Not that he would've been sober enough to indulge them if they'd tried.

Closing his eyes, he let the vertigo of drunkenness take him for a ride. What was his team doing right now, on the other side of the world where it was tomorrow morning? Boston had gone home to Oklahoma or Kansas - Murdock couldn't remember in his drunken stupor - and Bulldog was dead. Hannibal was probably still trying to make nice with Westman after disobeying a direct order to stay away from Son Tay. Murdock didn't quite know how to feel about that, or about the gaping holes in the abbreviated story he'd gotten from BA, who wouldn't look him in the eye when he told it.

They'd thought he was dead. After escaping from their own camp - Face was very non-specific as to how - they spent several months looking for any indication of where he'd been taken. Finally, by blind luck, they snatched an NVA soldier who'd been stationed at Son Tay and identified Murdock. Hannibal went the same day to get approval for the mission. When he couldn't get it, he called back to the team and told them he had.

It was a bold move. If they'd failed, Hannibal would've been up against a court martial for sure. They put it all on the line for him, risked everything and then some more. And for what? When he found out he was going home, he'd felt nothing - no relief, no surprise, no joy or sadness. He should've been happy. Alan kept telling him to be happy, to feel lucky that he was still alive. Most POWs didn't get that relief, in the end. Most of them died in filth and agony.

Murdock frowned deeply, chest rising and falling as he took a deep breath. Yeah. Lucky. Shutting his eyes, he took another long drag from his cigarette. Somehow, with no purpose, no family, and nowhere to go, he didn't feel particularly lucky. He hadn't even bothered to contact his few friends when he'd come back home. They were too busy marching in protests to care about his return anyways; he didn't want to see them.

The knock on the door startled him. In cutoff jeans and nothing else, he stumbled to answer it, setting the bottle on the dresser. When he opened the door, his eyes widened immediately and he stood up a bit straighter. "Colonel!" he exclaimed, surprised.

Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith stood in full uniform, just outside the room. Murdock opened the door wider without even thinking, inviting him into the room. "What the hell are you doing here?" There was no one in the world he would've been more surprised to see.

"I should ask you the same question," Hannibal answered, removing the familiar green beret as he stepped inside. Murdock shut the door behind him. "I just came from the VA. They told me I could find you here."

"You found me," Murdock confirmed. "Why are you looking for me?"

Hannibal's eyes scanned the room, and Murdock immediately felt self-conscious. He'd not let housekeeping in here for over a week. Cans and bottles and empty cigarette packs littered every flat surface. Aside from the Vitamin D pills he'd been strictly ordered to take after so many months in a dark cell, all he'd really consumed since he'd returned to the States was liquor, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the occasional pizza when he was willing to risk the repercussions. His dreams of steak and eggs had proved too much for his stomach after so many months of starvation.

"This place is a mess," Hannibal declared, taking a step further into the room and picking up an empty carton of Marlboroughs, tossing it in the general direction of the heap of trash with the plastic bucket underneath. Leave it to Hannibal to state the obvious.

"I wasn't expecting company," Murdock answered, studying him warily.

 _"He's come to tell you everyone's dead."_ The voice in his head was so real, it was almost audible. _"Either that or to drag your ass back to that hell hole."_

Murdock set his jaw as he answered silently, but firmly. _"You may think so, Alan, but you've been wrong before."_

Hannibal turned to look him up and down with an unfamiliar, almost compassionate look. "Get dressed," he ordered. Then, with a long look at the disaster area of his living space, added under his breath, "That is, if you can find any clean clothes in here. Let me buy you dinner."

Stunned at the common, friendly gesture, Murdock could do nothing but nod. The man had come all the way from the other side of the world to buy him dinner. That was normal, right? Perhaps it was no wonder that he simply didn't recognize normal anymore.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

 **1971**

If Hannibal noticed the looks of pure horror he received from every direction in the moderately upscale restaurant, he didn't acknowledge them. In dress greens and sporting a dark tan, his body well-toned from months of active service, he definitely stood out among the fat and pale-skinned civilians. A few paused to stare but - perhaps just because of the way the man carried himself - nobody in the restaurant dared speak in a tone he could actually hear. Hushed whispers and murmurs permeated the silence, but the soldier and his civilian companion were purposefully ignored.

Sitting across from his former commanding officer and nursing a scotch on the rocks, Murdock didn't feel much like eating. But the pasta helped to soak up the liquor and it was easy enough on his stomach. Besides, it would've been a shame to go through the trouble of putting on clothes suitable for this restaurant - cutoffs and a T-shirt wouldn't have been quite sufficient - just to sit here and stare at his plate. Or, perhaps more accurately, to be stared at by the wary and confused patrons, unsure of why a soldier would be advertising his association with an unpopular war and why his companion was so damned emaciated.

Hannibal had nearly finished his meal before offering any conversation beyond the casual comment on the restaurant's decor or the distinctly overcast weather. But Murdock had been bracing himself for it since the moment they'd set foot out of the sleazy motel room.

"So, what are you doing now that your service is over?" came the question he'd been anticipating with dread.

He sucked in a breath, steeling himself for an interrogation. _"Better be careful what you tell him,"_ the familiar voice in his head whispered, low and hot in his ear _. "You know what he wants if he came all this way."_

"I've been working on finding a job," he lied, trying to ignore the intrusion. "And thinking about going back to college."

Hannibal raised a brow and Murdock's eyes lowered. Honorably discharged from the military and given a clean bill of health after only a few weeks in the VA hospital, he'd been handed a nice severance package and a free ride to the university of his choice for any degree he wanted. But it wasn't really a consideration.

"Why just thinking about it?" Hannibal pressed.

Murdock shifted nervously. He could think of nowhere he'd enjoy less than in a classroom full of draft-evaders, but he didn't feel like discussing the betrayal of the general public. "Well, I don't really know yet," he offered with a shrug, planning out his liberal list of vague excuses. "I've had a lot to think about. I mean, I already have a bachelors in aerospace engineering. Just... don't really care to use it."

Hannibal remained silent.

 _"Tick tock, tick tock..."_

 __Growling at the voice in his head, Murdock clenched and released his fists under the table, safely out of sight. _"Knock it off,"_ he warned silently. _"There's just nothing to say."_

As the lines of doubt and distrust continued rehearsing in his brain, Murdock did his damnedest to ignore them. Still, as the silence stretched, he grew more and more uncomfortable.

"How is everyone?" he finally asked. Even discussion about the situation in Vietnam would be preferable to a rehashing of his own troubles. And anything at all would be better than the nothingness that filled the air between them.

"They're fine," Hannibal answered casually, pausing for a sip of water. "BA still has problems with his shoulder from that bullet wound. Face broke a few ribs falling out of a McGuire rig."

Murdock's eyes widened. "He fell out of a McGuire rig? From how high?"

"About thirty feet," Hannibal replied with the faintest hint of a grin. "Right through the trees."

"And he only broke a few ribs?" Murdock asked in awe. How lucky was that man?

 _"Luckier than you..."_

"He also sprained his ankle," Hannibal added dismissively. "But he's alright. We all took a few overdue days of R&R to recover."

Murdock snorted with laughter. "You mean to tell me you came here on R&R?"

"After a short stay in Hawaii, yes."

Blinking in surprise at the answer to his facetious - and not very well thought-through - question, Murdock laughed tightly and shook his head. "Why?"

"To find you."

The quick, firm answer was even more stunning, and far more confrontational, than the first. Looking up at the colonel, Murdock set his jaw and waited for more. _"Told you,"_ that taunting voice in his head mocked, and Murdock's tight fists nearly shook beneath the tablecloth.

"You've been given a clean bill of health," Hannibal noted, ever-so-conversationally as he took another drink.

Murdock looked away, toward the window and the evening light outside, to the door and the well-dressed, carefree patrons wandering in to take their reserved tables. He tried to find something to focus on, but instead found his eyes darting from one snapshot to the next to the next, recording them all in a photo album of someone else's life.

"I've been discharged, Hannibal," he said flatly, finally reaching for his glass and taking a much deeper drink than he really needed.

"So re-up."

Murdock shut his eyes at the ludicrous simplicity of those words. He knew how this conversation should go; he had it with himself - and with Alan - often enough. He'd gone to the Air Force Academy with every intention of making a career out of the military. What else did he have? What else had he ever wanted, except to fly? They needed him; he needed purpose and meaning to his life. The equation seemed simple. But in fact, it was anything but. He'd not counted on Vietnam affecting him the way it had. His decision to choose the military path - for reasons he both did and refused to accept - was naive and regrettable. Who in their right mind would choose a life of blood and gore and hell and hopelessness? Who would go back to that hell hole _knowing_ what was waiting for them? More importantly, who would have the audacity to ask someone else to do it?

Slowly, Murdock looked again at the colonel seated casually across the table. "You're out of your mind," he said dryly.

Hannibal chuckled with the familiar, devil-may-care laugh that warned just how out of his mind he really was. "Yeah," he admitted with a grin. "I get that a lot."

Murdock shook his head, not sure what the hell he was supposed to say. There were other pilots; Hannibal didn't have to come all the way to LA to find one. Murdock was good, but the last time he'd flown, he crashed into the jungle, killed two people on impact, and ultimately got them all dragged off to a POW camp. And he didn't even remember how it had all happened; the whole thing was a black spot in his muddled memory. Frankly, he wasn't entirely sure he wantedto fly again, much less in a combat setting. He certainly hadn't lived up to the expectation that had landed him on Hannibal's team in the first place. Why the hell was he here? Murdock had nothing worthwhile to offer even if he wanted to.

Finally, after a long, lingering silence, Hannibal sat forward. "You know, I came out here not knowing what I would find," he began. His tone was still conversational but suddenly it held an authority that made Murdock sit up straighter on instinct alone. "If I'd found a man who was making something of his life, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I found you in some God-forsaken roach motel drinking yourself to death. So tell me, Lieutenant, is this what you want out of life?"

"It's my life," Murdock growled defensively.

"Yeah?" Hannibal challenged, brows raised. "And where's it gonna go when the money runs out? You've got to be getting pretty close..."

Drawing in a sharp breath, Murdock drew himself up tall, shoulders back, fists clenched hard beneath the table as the anger surged through every fiber of his being. It wasn't just the anger at an officer who would come to dress him down after he'd already given everything he had and everything he was to his country. Far more infuriating was the fact that Hannibal was completely right. He didn't have a clue where he was going or how he would get there.

"Do you realize what you're asking me to do?" Murdock demanded with a vicious glare.

"I'm asking you to pick yourself up off the floor and get your shit together," Hannibal answered with calm authority. "Because I'm not willing to lose the best goddamn pilot in Vietnam to a cesspool of liquor and self-pity. At least not without a fight."

"I'm a civilian now," Murdock growled. "You have no authority."

"I'm not saying this as your commanding officer," Hannibal corrected, rising to his feet. "Commanding officers don't come halfway across the world to talk to their subordinates. I'm here as your friend. Just think it over, will you?"

And then, setting his napkin on his plate Hannibal took just a second to jam the knife in one last time, loud enough for half of the restaurant to hear, "Enjoy your evening, Lieutenant."

Murdock shut his eyes, jaw clenched as the room's attention turned toward the pair of them like a spotlight. Angry and indignant, he looked up again to burn holes into the back of Hannibal's head. But the colonel only walked three steps, paused, and turned back as if he'd just thought of something else.

"By the way," he said, clearly aware of his audience, but ignoring it entirely. "What we did for you, you're not obligated to repay. You've served your country well and you don't owe anyone a damn thing - not me, not your government, and certainly not these ungrateful slobs." Hannibal gestured around the room, making eye contact with a few people who quickly looked away.

"What's your point?" Murdock asked coolly.

"You're a free man," Hannibal concluded with a cynical look in his eye. "No reason, no responsibility, and no one to care if you live or die." He smiled wickedly before he concluded with the sharpest dagger in his arsenal. "How's it feel?"

Without waiting for an answer, offering no parting words of well wishes, no handshake or gesture, Hannibal simply turned and walked away. Staring after him for a long moment, Murdock finally realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a rush, leaning forward to cradle his head in his hands. Although the murmurs continued in the restaurant around him, he suddenly felt very alone.

 **1985**

Being out in the open, ten feet off the ground, apparently unnerved Face as much as it thrilled Murdock. Huddled against the wall to secure their footing on the narrow ledge, they were wide-open targets if anyone should happen to see them. It made Murdock's blood pound through his veins, intoxicating him with a feeling of danger he didn't ordinarily seek out. One member of the team "on the jazz" was enough, and Hannibal was always ready to fill the role. But just now, it somehow calmed his anxiety to place his life in the hands of fate and simply watch for signs of movement while Face checked the locks of the windows.

What were the chances they would find Alan's daughter in this house? Murdock's mind wandered over the possibility as Face moved on to the next window and he followed behind. The goal of recon was to get in and out without being seen, and Hannibal had made it clear that this was "strictly recon." But Murdock couldn't imagine that if they actually found the girl that they were supposed to leave her there. For the first time, he thought to wonder what she might be like. He'd never given any thought to having a niece.

They continued along the ledge, checking locked and alarmed windows, to where the roof sloped down. When they ran out of ledge, they climbed onto the rooftop on hands and knees, careful not to slip on the shingles, and stopped just before the peak of the roof. It was a good vantage point, and Murdock lay flat on his stomach, squinting into the darkness and wishing the moon was just a bit more full.

"Hey, Hannibal, you copy?" Face whispered into the walkie talkie.

It took a few seconds for the response. "Go ahead."

"How far out are you?"

Again, Hannibal paused before responding. "We're coming up to the last gate. Had some trouble with the dogs that held us up for a while. Why?"

"This place is locked up pretty tight," Face said into the radio. "There's cameras and alarms all over, and the alarms are on the inside, so I can't get to them. Either we're going to set one off or we're going to need to cut the power. How do you want to do this?"

Murdock considered the possibilities quietly. Cutting the power wouldn't be hard. Making it look like an accident would. The people on the first floor would know something was wrong if the power went out all of a sudden. It appeared that their "silent" recon was facing immeasurable odds. More than likely, they were going to have to trade silence for efficiency and hopefully a bit of luck.

"Just sit tight if you can't get in," Hannibal ordered. "I have a plan."

Face gave a quiet half-groan, half-whimper. "Why did I know he was going to say that?"

With a smirk, Murdock nodded to the skylight on the other side of the steep pitch. "You think that one's alarmed?" he asked. Dropping through the ceiling was bound to be more subtle and probably less dangerous than whatever plan Hannibal was cooking.

Not answering, Face climbed over and inched his way down to peer inside. After several minutes of tipping his head one way and then the other, he finally grabbed the walkie talkie again. "There's a skylight window we can get through," he said quietly. Murdock took the cue and crawled carefully down the steep slope. "It's over a bathroom and there's a fifteen-foot drop inside, but I think it's our best bet. All the surrounding rooms are unoccupied."

Hannibal took a long moment to answer. "Alright, go for it," he ordered. "But stay out of sight."

"Copy that," Face answered quickly.

Peering down into the dark room below, Murdock could just make out the shape of a bathtub directly beneath them. The skylight had been installed in spite of the tall attic, and the narrow corridor heading straight down would be just wide enough to squeeze through until they reached the open room. Holding the barrel of his pistol, Face cracked the grip against the windowpane - hard. The glass shattered, deafeningly loud, and both men turned to lie flat against the roof, out of sight if someone came into the bathroom and looked up, or if someone came outside to check for their silhouettes against the night sky. Murdock shut his eyes as he stopped breathing for a few seconds, as if his enforced silence might somehow counteract the loud crash of tinkling glass into the room below.

They waited, but everything remained still. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Face turned and cleared away some of the glass with the pistol, then wrestled out of his shirt, using it to protect his hands as he dropped down into the bathroom. He hung suspended for a moment before letting go and dropping as gracefully as he could manage into the glass-filled tub.

Murdock followed, crunching glass under his sneakers as he landed harder than he would've liked and prayed no one was in the room directly below. Straightening his jacket, he paused a few steps behind Face, who checked the hallway then moved out, against the wall and into the next room, closing the door behind them.

It was a large and sterile bedroom; nobody occupied it. In the shadows, Murdock could see the outlines of the furniture: a bed, tall wardrobe, and desk.

"We're inside." Face's whisper into the radio made him jump.

"Where are you?" The volume was so low, Murdock almost couldn't hear Alan's reply.

"A guest room, it looks like," Face hissed. "On the second floor."

"Corrolini conducts all of his business either in the office or the study. The office is on the second floor, on the west side, just to the left of the big hallway window if you're looking from the backyard. The study is on the first floor. Going in the back door, it's down a hallway to the right, first door on the left."

"If we go down the stairs," Face whispered, "which way is it to the study?"

"Down the main steps into the foyer, you'll need to turn back the other way and head toward the back door, then go left."

Murdock was already checking the hallway again. It was pleasantly quiet and dimly lit. His guess was that Corrolini wasn't even here. Maybe there was no one here, except of course for the security guards and the driver who mysteriously hadn't been dismissed yet. Perhaps he was waiting for Corrolini.

"We should check these rooms," Murdock whispered. "If he's keeping her here, she won't be in the places where he does business."

Face nodded, but didn't speak.

The office was easy to find, but the door was locked. Murdock stepped aside and tiptoed down the hallway, leaving Face to work on the doorknob. Further on down the hall, the next thing he came to was a long, well-lit wrap-around that overlooked an empty, sparkling clean foyer. Two guards were stationed at the door, sitting and talking quietly. Murdock ducked back out of sight.

By the time he got back to the room, the door was open. He followed Face inside, and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. Instead of turning the light on, Face opened the curtains to let the dim light from outside filter in. Murdock went immediately for the filing cabinets as Face planted the bug inside the phone. Several minutes later, having rustled through the desk, Face joined him.

"Find anything interesting?"

Murdock shook his head. "Either this guy doesn't keep records or he doesn't keep them here." He sifted quickly through another folder before carefully setting it with all its contents back into the cabinet.

"He's got to keep records," Face whispered back, glancing around. "Probably in his safe."

Murdock continued to shuffle through the uninteresting papers. Warranty information on various household items and diagrams of buildings that he guessed Corrolini owned. Tax information - somewhat interesting but all so beautifully doctored that there was no indication Corrolini was involved in anything but legitimate business trading. Receipts from charitable donations and estimates for construction work. The files were well-organized and yet random. But one thing they had in common: there was nothing illegal about any of them.

"Bingo."

He turned and saw Face with his hand inside of the safe that he'd located inside the cabinet. Figuring Face's discovery had to be more interesting, Murdock shoved the papers back into their folder and closed the drawer. He crossed the floor in a few short steps and crouched down. "Whatcha got?" he asked, grabbing some of the papers still left inside.

"Contacts," Face answered, distracted by his find. "The people he's selling to."

"Face?" The quiet voice through the radio startled them both, even as low as it was turned.

Face reached with one hand to grab it. "Yeah, Hannibal?"

"Keep your head up. Corrolini just passed us on the road and he's got a bit of an entourage with him. Did you plant those bugs yet?"

"In the office," Face answered, looking over the papers. "Not the study."

"Get it done quick," Hannibal ordered. "Any idea if the girl is there?"

"Murdock is checking the rooms on the second story right now." Face glanced at Murdock, and he nodded before heading to the door. "I'm getting pictures of these contracts."

"Be careful," Hannibal warned, his quiet voice fading as Murdock headed to the door. "Until we know where the girl is, I'd rather not instigate a shootout."

Just before slipping out, Murdock heard Face answer with an equally quiet and equally serious, "Understood."

 **1985**

"Did you get the receivers planted?" Hannibal asked as Murdock and Face ducked down behind the shed at the far north side of the lawn.

"Piece of cake," Murdock smiled, casting a long look at BA and his portable receiver. Holding one side of a pair of headphones to his ear, he was tuning a dial on the little black box, trying to pick up a signal.

"We also got photos of his business records," Face informed, holding up the small camera in demonstration. "From what I can tell, this guy's got a whole smuggling ring going. Drugs, people, cars - going both ways across the border. But he's also got a lot of legitimate business. Charitable donations, pays taxes on his American properties, and owns a handful of small businesses."

"And the girl?" Hannibal asked, looking past them as the windows illuminated to signal the movement of Corrolini's entourage through the house. Murdock followed his gaze. They'd waited for the small crowd to enter the house before making a break for it, but hadn't been able to tell much about the newcomers. Corrolini himself was easy enough to pick out, but were the others clients? Employees? Associates?

"No sign of her," Face admitted as Murdock dragged his wondering, wandering thoughts back to the situation at hand. "But there were too many guards to check everywhere."

Hannibal nodded. "Did you manage to -"

"I got him!" BA interrupted, low and quick. "He in the study room."

It took only seconds for Hannibal to reach for the other set of headphones, only to be greeted with a string of rapid-fire Spanish Murdock could hear from where he sat. "Murdock, come here," Hannibal ordered quickly, shoving the headphones into his hands as he crawled quickly closer to BA.

" _Por supuesto es malo para el negocio_!" A door closed, and an angry man heaved an angry sigh as he sat down near the receiver. The man's voice rose to a yell as he continued in rapid Spanish, pounding on the desktop - a sound that rattled deafeningly in the headphones and made Murdock jump reflexively. " _Como diablos está que bien para el negocio!_ "

"What is he saying?" Hannibal asked.

"Uh..." It took Murdock a minute to slip into the role of a translator.

BA was faster. "He got a guy in Argentina who wants a car tomorrow afternoon," BA relayed as the angry man continued. "He says it's bad for business if he can't get him that car."

Murdock closed his eyes, concentrating on the sing-song tones of the northern Mexican accents. "The guy he's talking to says they'll find it," he translated.

"Find him," BA corrected. "They talking about Alan."

Murdock nodded in agreement as he listened further. "They want the car he stole. A 1984 Saleen Mustang Prototype."

"And they need it in less than twenty-four hours," BA added.

"I still think he'll show." A third voice, in English, startled Murdock in the midst of the quick and angry tones in Spanish. He'd only thought there were only two men in the room. "We've got his daughter."

"Third guy speaks English," BA informed, then relayed the comment.

"I told you. I don't care about that son of a bitch. I want the car!" Corrolini replied, switching to English. It took a moment for Murdock's brain to catch up.

"Well, maybe he actually has the car," the third man suggested. "He might not have brought it if he thinks we're going to kill him."

"I am going to kill him," Corrolini growled angrily. "If I wasn't, why do you think I would have hired that crazy _mercenario_?"

Murdock and BA exchanged brief glances. Then Murdock looked to Hannibal, perched anxiously on the balls of his feet. "He's hired someone to find Alan," Murdock said solemnly.

Now that they were speaking in a language all four of them could understand, BA pulled the headphones away from his ears and turned the volume up as loud as it would go. Face and Hannibal both leaned in to hear as Murdock slipped his headphones off as well.

"Maybe we can boost one of the other two cars," the second man suggested with a thick accent that was much more difficult to understand than if he'd spoken his native Spanish. "We know where they are."

"In twenty-four hours?" Corrolini reminded, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His English was far more fluid, and carried the nuances of a man thoroughly disgusted by his hired help. "I don't have the manpower for that! I still have to find a man to replace Parker!"

"My brother could do it, Mr. Corrolini." The voice belonged to the man who'd spoken only English. "He got that Porsche for us when Rayner fucked up last month."

Hannibal and Face exchanged interested glances, and Face reached for his walkie talkie. "A-Team to base, copy?"

Alan answered immediately. "Go ahead, A-Team."

"You recognize this guy's voice?" Face questioned before holding the walkie up to the blaring headphones as the possibility of a backup plan to get the car was discussed in vague hypotheticals.

"Sounds like Kyle Jackson," Alan finally said when the conversation broke briefly. "He's got a brother named Chris who's a car boost, too. But Chris doesn't work for Corrolini. At least, not officially."

Face and Hannibal exchanged another long look. Murdock knew what they were thinking. But it would only work if Corrolini had never met Chris and, more importantly, they actually had a prayer of stealing this car.

"Alright, that gives us a start," Hannibal said. "We've cleared a path from the outer gate to here, so we should be able to travel with relative ease except for the dogs. Let's get back to the van. I've got a couple ideas on how we can get in right through the front door."

Murdock sighed in resignation and nodded his agreement. Retracing their steps out of here would be faster and easier than getting in, but he wasn't as enthusiastic about getting out of enemy territory as the others. The further he got from Corrolini's mansion, the closer he got to the man who reminded him about everything in his past he wanted to forget.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

 **1971**

It had taken a bit of know-how and a fair amount of luck to find Colonel Hannibal Smith. His unit was not in Da Nang, their "home base", nor in Nha Trang, or Plieko, or Lang Veih or any of the many Forward Operating Bases along the western border where Murdock would have expected to find them. They were in Saigon, of all places. Informed of this, Murdock was then faced with the difficult question of how to catch them before they headed to some remote area deep in enemy territory.

Thankfully, his luck came through again.

"Sure, I know Hannibal." The affirmative response after so many blank stares made Murdock breathe a sigh of relief.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Murdock waited in eager anticipation for the warrant officer from the 1st Air Cav to continue, and prodded gently when the information was not forthcoming. "Do you know where I might find him?"

"Maybe." The soldier was sizing him up with obvious curiosity. "Who's asking?"

Murdock extended a hand and offered a smile. "Howlin' Mad Murdock, at your service," he said, purposely neglecting his rank. The soldier could see it on his lapel if he was interested. "Or at least what's left of me. Reorientation into this chicken shit outfit is a bitch."

The warrant officer's eyes widened. "You're Howling Mad Murdock?"

Apparently, his reputation preceded him. "No no no, see... you said it wrong." Murdock continued to grin as he pulled back from the handshake and gestured in the air a little. "It's not how-ling." He emphasized the end of the word. "How-ling sounds like a Chinese guy's name. It's How-lin'. Howlin' Mad. Now you try it."

Clearly, the young warrant officer - he couldn't have been more than a few weeks in-country - did not know how to take this. He just stared for a long moment. Murdock would have to be the one to break the tension, and he did so smoothly.

"Anyhow, where can I find Colonel Smith?"

"Uh..." The man shook his head quickly, as if to clear it, then gestured down the hall. "He's in the officer's club. I just came from there. I'll uh... show you the way if you'd like."

Murdock was so light on his feet, he almost skipped after the man. After six months of retraining and testing, he'd arrived in Vietnam three weeks ago. Every spare moment since had been spent in an effort to track down his former CO. He should've known to come to Saigon first. After all, it was where all of their orders came from even if Da Nang was technically "home base". But something about knocking on General Westman's door left him unsettled.

"You're sure he's in here?" Murdock asked as they approached the doors of the poorly built structure. It looked like a converted single story office building made of plywood and cracked asbestos sheeting.

"Positive, sir," the Warrant Officer assured.

Taking a big step forward and pulling out ahead of the man, Murdock threw the doors to the officer's club open and stepped inside with his arms over his head and a shout that echoed off of the walls. "Gentlemen! The cavalry has arrived!"

A few seconds of startled stares, then suddenly he locked eyes with a table full of familiar faces. "Murdock?" Face cried in shock.

He grinned, letting the doors close behind him. Chairs scraped the floor as BA and Cipher both rose with smiles in place. As Murdock came closer, Cipher grabbed his shoulder and turned him to get a better look at the patch on his arm. "You're army now?" he asked in surprise.

"1st Aviation Brigade," Murdock answered with a smirk. "And I got a promotion out of it, too."

"How the hell did you swing that?" Face asked with genuine curiosity, studying the new insignia from where he remained seated, not looking away as he took a long drink from his beer.

Murdock chuckled. "Funny story. I went to the Air Force recruiting office and the jackass basically tells me that they really don't want me back."

"What!" BA cried in surprise.

"Well, it was a little more complicated than that but anyways, as this guy is giving me the third degree, Army recruiter comes walking right by." Murdock's gaze lingered for a moment on Face, whose expression gave no indication of his reaction. "They were all in the same building, you know? And he jumps right in and says they'll not only take me in Vietnam, but they'll put through for a promotion and send me anywhere I wanna go. I signed on the dotted line five minutes later."

Finally, Hannibal stood and leaned over the table to shake his hand. Amongst the laughter and surprise, their gaze held for a long moment. Hannibal smiled, and Murdock returned it with a nod of wordless understanding. He was home.

 **1971**

"Aw, sweet!" The young pilot's eyes lit up like a kid's on Christmas morning as they came to rest on the brand new, shiny plane parked at the end of the landing strip. "Wanna go for a ride, colonel? Let's go find us some of those VC mother fuckers!"

Colonel Smith raised a brow, amused by Murdock's initiative, and eyed the plane for a moment. "What'd you have in mind, Captain?" he asked around the cigar.

Murdock didn't slow. He ran to the plane and ran his hand along the shiny metal on the underside of the wing as if caressing a lover. "Man, I would love to have a plane like this," he sighed. "Just take off over the mountains and never look back..."

Hannibal paused near the front of the plane, leaning against it with his arms crossed. It was good to see Murdock with some life in him again, a complete turnaround from the man he'd met only a few weeks ago. He wondered just how long it would take for the rest of the team - particularly Face - to warm back up to him.

"Sounds great," he agreed, considering the thought of flying off into the wild blue yonder. "Until you run out of fuel."

Smirking, Murdock glanced back. "Minor detail." He turned and walked down the length of the aircraft, inspecting it. "Did you know that in the States, every other mile of the interstate system has to be straight? For planes to make emergency landings."

"I didn't know that," Hannibal admitted.

"Yep. There's rules about bridges, too." He opened the engine compartment and smiled broadly. "Gee, it's all clean and sparkly still. How long ago did this thing get here?"

Hannibal shrugged. "Not sure."

"We've had her three days."

Both men turned at the unexpected voice, thick with a Texan drawl. A smile broke out across Hannibal's face instantly as he recognized the man.

"General," Hannibal greeted, stepping forward and offering a handshake.

Murdock stood a little straighter. Dressed in olive fatigues and still too far away to see the emblems of his rank and unit, General Westman didn't look much different from any other officer who wandered the Saigon base. But if any man's rank and reputation could instill a healthy fear, it was his.

"So you're HM Murdock," Westman said, extending a hand as he came closer.

"Yes, sir," Murdock replied seriously, casting a quick, uneasy glance at Hannibal before shaking the proffered hand.

"Ross Westman," the General introduced himself. "Heard a lot about you."

Murdock's eyes widened a little, but he smiled nonetheless. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."

"I'll be honest," Westman continued, "I couldn't figure what it was about you that would make this man -" He nodded toward Hannibal. "- risk a court martial to get you home safe."

Murdock shifted uneasily. Hannibal could see him fighting the urge to look away and the tension was almost palpable, but he held it together.

"He says RT Cannon needs you, though," Westman finished. "And, come down to it, I gotta trust his judgment. And -" He paused for a brief chuckle. "- gotta take into account just how far he was willing to go to get you back once you _did_ get home safe."

Nodding his understanding, Murdock forced a smile. "I understand I owe you quite a debt of gratitude for helping me out of that mess at A Shau," he said.

"Ah, that was nothing." With a twinkle in his eye, Westman exchanged knowing glances with Hannibal. "You should've seen the strings I had to pull for your Lieutenant Peck."

Murdock's brows raised as Hannibal chuckled. But he didn't have a chance to answer before Westman clapped a hand over his shoulder. Turning his attention to the plane with a devious smirk on his lips, he led Murdock towards the cockpit. "You know how to fly this thing?"

Slipping easily back into his comfort zone, Murdock chuckled. "All planes fly the same, sir. Some just fly faster than others."

A hearty laugh answered the confident assertion, and Hannibal watched the General with amusement, wondering just what he had up his sleeve. "That's true, that's true," Westman muttered, putting one hand on his hip and the other on the plane. "You wanna take her for a ride, Captain?"

Murdock's eyes lit up. "Seriously?"

"I gotta get to Pleiku," Westman answered with a nod. "So does this plane. And I just heard a debriefing with a real good idea where to find some of them VC you were talking about."

 **1985**

Alan was even less impressed with Hannibal's plan than the rest of the team, not least because he had less faith that the holes would miraculously fill themselves once things began to progress. His lack of enthusiasm didn't seem to faze Hannibal in the least.

"All we need is that car," the colonel declared with a shrug. "And a willing soul to pose as brother Chris."

Without even looking at him, Hannibal put an arm around Face's shoulders, and the younger man sighed. "Right."

"No, it's not that easy," Alan warned, wary of Hannibal's confident smile.

"Why not?" Hannibal replied in blinking naiveté, as though stealing rare cars and impersonating mercenaries was the sort of thing he did for relaxation.

Bewildered, Alan stammered a bit on his answer before snapping with impatience, "There's only three prototypes of that car in existence. One of 'em is on an exhibition floor in the GM building in Detroit. There's no way of gettin' it outta there. The other one, I couldn't even find."

"What about the one you stole?" Face asked simply.

Alan stared at him incredulously. "That one's in a police impound in LA. If they ain't come and got it already."

Face smirked, a knowing, confident glint in his eyes. "Perfect."

"Good," Hannibal nodded. "Face, see if you can get a flight back to LA; it'll be faster. Take Murdock and Alan and bring back that car. BA and I will stay here and work on the phones and power, maybe set up some more distractions just in case we need them."

"Too bad those bugs won't transmit all the way out here," BA said dejectedly.

"I've got an idea for a relay we can set up using the van's radio and a couple of walkie talkies," Hannibal said contemplatively. "It'll take some time, but we should have plenty of that while we're waiting for you three to get back."

Murdock was already moving to the van, but Alan was shaking his head vehemently. "Look, I don't even know for sure Corrolini's never met Chris," he protested. "And Kyle will sure as hell know his brother when he sees him! This is crazy!"

"Do you have a better idea?" Hannibal asked pointedly.

"I say we grab Corrolini while he's sleeping tonight and make him tell us where my daughter is," Alan declared.

The entire team paused to contemplate this plan. With a raised brow, Hannibal took a step closer. "And just how do you propose we 'make' him talk?" he challenged.

Alan's fists clenched at his sides. "Any way we have to."

"Look, Alan," Hannibal replied, clearly irritated by the arrogance of a man used to accomplishing his goals through sheer brutality. "If we grab Corrolini, he'll know two things. First, he'll know we can't kill him because then you'll never know where your daughter is. Second, all he has to do is wait it out and somebody on his long list of bodyguards and gun-toting employees will come for him."

"Waiting it out isn't so easy when you're in pain," Alan growled.

"And in case you haven't noticed," Hannibal shot back, "we're not in the habit of torturing, maiming, or killing civilians - even scumbags like Corrolini - to get what we want. And even if we were, there's no guarantee he would talk before someone kills your daughter in retaliation for his kidnapping."

Looking back and forth between the two alpha males, Murdock remained silent. He wasn't surprised when Alan didn't back down, or when Hannibal took a step closer to poke in the taller man's direction with his unlit cigar. " _You_ hired _us_ ," Hannibal said firmly. "Not the other way around. If you want our help, we do this our way. Otherwise, we walk away right now."

"It's not like we'll be losing all that much," Face interjected, arms crossed as he leaned against the side of the van. He regarded Alan with a look of calm distaste. "Seeing as we're not even getting paid for this, I'm not entirely sure why we're going through all this trouble in the first place."

Alan cast a quick glance at Face before turning back to Hannibal. For a long, tense moment, Murdock thought this may very well be the end of their involvement here. But finally, shaking his head vehemently again, Alan turned and paced a few steps. He felt his pocket, looking for cigarettes, and Hannibal cast a subtle glance at Murdock. But he had nothing to add.

"Well, maybe I should go in there and give myself up," Alan suggested as he found the pack, then searched for a lighter. "I mean, it's pretty likely they'd take me to wherever they're holding her, right?"

"It's a possibility," Hannibal nodded. "But it's equally possible they'll just shoot you."

"If they hired a mercenary to find you," BA interrupted, "they mean business."

Alan's hands were shaking as he struggled to light the cigarette, and Murdock's eyes narrowed as he watched them. Was it the tension and anxiety causing that, or maybe withdrawal? Not that he cared...

"You have nothing to bargain with," Hannibal continued. "If you go in there now, we don't have a way to get you out."

"And if they kill you," Face added, "your daughter is worthless."

"Well, at least you'd know where she is," Alan replied weakly.

"Not necessarily," Hannibal corrected. "We can't guarantee he'd take you to your daughter first, or that he wouldn't kill you both with the same gun."

"And you don't have a way to get a message to us from in there," Face pointed out.

Alan growled, and hit the van with the side of his fist. "Then what are we supposed to do!"

"Hey, man!" BA warned, stepping forward in defense of his van. "Jus' settle down."

Alan dropped his head forward, resting it against his forearm. "I just want her back," he whispered, sounding shockingly broken. Murdock frowned deeply at the defeat he'd never heard in that all-too-familiar voice.

"If she's alive, we'll get her back," Hannibal assured him, the authority in his tone not wavering even if he was a bit gentler now that Alan had clearly conceded. "But you have to trust us. Otherwise, we can't help you."

"Your plan is crazy," Alan said weakly, shaking his head as he glanced up again at Hannibal.

"We know," Face replied, almost comfortingly. He gave a smile as Alan glanced at him. "But that tends to be the way we do things around here."

 **1971**

If Murdock was uneasy about flying a four star general right over the heads of the enemy, he didn't show it. Of course, once they left the ground, it was difficult to think of Westman as a four star general. In his dirty fatigues with a little 5.56mm CAR-15 assault rifle and a small case of fragmentation hand grenades, he gave the impression that he was just another soldier, sitting next to Hannibal in the backseat of the plane. The two of them laughed like old friends - they probably were - and Murdock smiled. It was so unusual to see anyone above a certain rank who didn't flinch at the thought of holding a weapon. Whatever that rank was, Westman surpassed it. Murdock had to wonder what kind of trouble would be had if anyone found out that a man this important _was_ holding a weapon.

"See 'em?" Murdock asked as he flew low enough to skim the trees. In a small clearing were at least a dozen trucks filled with bags and bags of rice.

"Yeah, I see 'em!" Westman called back, aiming the gun out of the large window.

"Hold on a minute," Murdock warned.

"For what?" Hannibal asked, reclining comfortably in the seat next to Westman.

"I gotta circle 'round the other side of 'em and you two gotta switch places," Murdock said. He grinned as he glanced into the back and exchanged brief glances with the colonel. "First time I did this, we had the target on the left side instead of the right. Hot cartridges outta the gun came back on me. Went right down along my neck."

Hannibal laughed. "Nice."

They switched. Murdock circled back around. "'Kay, hang on," he warned as he dove down in a low sweep, tipping the plane as the AKs began firing up at them.

Westman pointed his weapon out the window and emptied a cartridge of ammo on the figures in the trees. Not a single one of the sporadic, answering rounds from the AK-47s made it anywhere near the plane. Laughing, Westman pulled back and reloaded.

"Hot damn!" he cried. "I ain't done this in a long time!"

"Just make sure you don't get shot," Hannibal warned, closing his eyes and relaxing again as Murdock dipped the plane once more in an acrobatic show. A loud war cry from the pilot's seat made a smile creep across his face. The captain was in his element.

The problem with the plane, of course, was the fact that it only held so much fuel. With a careful eye on the gauges, Murdock kept them out over the jungle for as long as he safely could before landing at the Air Base in Plieku and refueling. An enthralled General Westman thanked him for the ride and waved his goodbyes to Hannibal as he headed away. Murdock still wore a broad smile as Hannibal climbed into the co-pilot's seat of the Huey Westman had requisitioned to take them back to Saigon.

"I kinda miss the planes," Murdock admitted as soon as they were in the air again. "Alan an' I used to do this all the time. Fly outta Nha Trang and go check out all the areas where the VC were hiding."

"Must've been a nice diversion from the jungle patrols between missions," Hannibal mused.

"For him," Murdock nodded. "For me, it was nice to get away from all the dead friendlies bleeding all over the back of my chopper."

It was the last thing Murdock said until they touched down again, after a pleasantly uneventful flight. As he climbed out of the plane, Hannibal watched the captain carefully. "What's on your mind, Murdock?"

The long silence had made it painfully obvious that there was something on his mind, even in the wake of such fun and excitement. He wasn't surprised Hannibal had noticed.

"I'm thinking about expanding my job description," Murdock declared with as much confidence as he could muster. He'd turned these words over and over in his head a million times, but they still sounded strange to him. Hopping down from the plane and brushing his hands together in conclusion of a job well done, he smiled at Hannibal's raised brow.

"Expanding it how?" the colonel asked, clearly curious.

"Well, not officially. But I was just thinking..." Feeling the stare of his commanding officer boring into him, Murdock did a walk around the chopper, checking it for damage although he knew there was none. At least, none he'd been responsible for. "I've always had quite a bit of free time. And you've always done quite a bit of extra training. IA drills and stuff..." He glanced over to see how his implication was being received so far.

"You want in on IA drills?" Hannibal seemed terribly amused by the thought.

"Well, lemme put it this way." Murdock poked his head around the side of the plane and hung there, watching the colonel. "We went down in the jungle an' I didn't have a clue what to do about it." He frowned deeply. "I never felt so much like a hunted animal in my life. Now, I'll do my part in makin' sure I keep the bird in the air. But if it ever happens again..."

He let the suggestion hang in the air as Hannibal studied him, trying to determine whether or not it was a serious request. Surely, Murdock was out of his mind, knowing the physical and mental stress of the training he was requesting and would probably - hopefully - never even use. But Murdock was dead serious, and he was willing to pour blood, sweat, and tears into proving it.

"Alright," Hannibal agreed hesitantly, still considering him with a skeptical look. "Oh-six-hundred tomorrow, you're welcome to join us."

Murdock grinned as he nodded. "I'll be there," he promised with a sigh of relief. He was never going to be a burden on this team again.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

 **1971**

Learning to be a part of IA drills had sounded like a good idea at the time. It seemed elementary - one person stepped left, the other stepped right, and they fired in succession. Murdock had not anticipated the hours and hours of practice for the seemingly simple maneuver, or how much the repetitive motions would hurt after the hundredth time.

Training for recon in the relatively safe areas immediately surrounding the base had also sounded like a good idea, back when Murdock could still feel his legs and it didn't hurt to breathe. Facedown on the floor - he hadn't even made it to the bed - in the team room at Tay Ninh, he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. The humidity stuck to his neck and his fatigues were soaked with sweat. A rock jabbed into his ribs. It hurt. He had no intention of moving.

He heard laughter - women's laughter - but knew that couldn't be right. There were no women on this base. Exhausted and delirious, and apparently having auditory hallucinations again, he should have been concerned but was instead amused. He wondered if any of them could sing...

"Come on, Murdock. Up and at 'em."

Separated from himself by the blurred line between painful reality and harmless fantasy, he groaned loudly as a man on either side dragged him up. "Nooo..."

A vaguely familiar laugh forced his eyes open, but he couldn't immediately focus. "Come on," the voice ordered. "Start walking. Your feet will figure it out."

It took a moment to place the young voice. Warrant Officer Charles "Snap" Pelt had been called upon to fill his shoes while he was away, but he was clearly more comfortable on the right side of the cockpit. What little time they'd spent in the air lately - when Murdock wasn't being subjected to all forms of endurance testing and repetitious torture - had been remarkably cohesive. They worked well together, and if the kid was a bit idealistic, well, that wasn't always a bad thing.

As a hand on his back shoved forward, Murdock moved robot-like toward the door instead of falling on his face. "Where are we going?" he mumbled. All he wanted to do was sleep, right there on the floor.

"You survived a whole week of recon training," Cipher pointed out. Wow, when had he gotten here? Trying to figure that out took Murdock's attention off of his next step, and he almost crashed to the ground. Muscles in full rebellion, screaming in protest, he pushed onward.

"Now it's about time for us to buy you a drink," Snap finished. Clearly, the young peter pilot had no idea the trauma suffered by every muscle in Murdock's body over the past few days. But Cipher should have had more pity...

Murdock groaned again. "I don't want a drink," he slurred. At the moment, he could think of very few things he wanted less. "I want a nice comfortable bed. And a fan. Maybe even air conditioning."

"The officer's club is air conditioned," Snap bribed.

"Ugh..." Even the promise of cooler air couldn't compare with the need for sleep. "Noooo..."

"Look at it this way," Cipher said with a sickeningly smug tone. "Next week, you'll have some endurance built up."

"Next week?" Murdock repeated shakily.

"We're going into the An Lao Valley in the morning," Snap announced. From the way he walked, it was pretty evident he'd already consumed a few drinks. "Bright Light."

"Gotta celebrate your victory while you have time," Cipher finished.

Murdock stopped, finding a moment of coherence as the thought of an actual mission in a few hours sent a shot of adrenaline through him and filled his voice with determination. "Alright, guys, going somewhere means I have to fly and that means I have to sleep."

He turned around and headed back to the hootch, but the two men grabbed him on either side. With a pathetic cry of, "Guys, I need sleeeeeeep..." he considered crumpling into a heap right there in the mud.

"One drink," Snap bargained.

"And just remember, Murdock..." He turned to look at Cipher, who was smiling with amusement. "This whole training thing was your bright idea."

"Don't remind me," Murdock groaned, finally resigning himself to his fate with a heavy sigh. The women in his head laughed a little louder.

 **1985**

Face smiled as he approached the guard shack at the entrance to the police impound. Surrounded by chain link fence and covered over with a badly rusted, corrugated tin roof, the parking lot wasn't the kind of place anyone would've expected to find a priceless car awaiting pickup by the higher-ups of the Ford Motor Company. But this was the right place, Alan was sure. When the deadline hit, he'd driven the car hell bent for leather all the way from Minnesota without being pulled over until he was just inside the county line. With blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror, he bailed, knowing they would confiscate the exotic car and not prepared to answer questions. It was only a matter of a few phone calls to find the impound once they knew the jurisdiction.

"I'm Roy Brewski," Face greeted the uniformed guard with the confused look, "executive director of recovery operations for Ford. This is James Prower." Murdock gave a tight but unconvincing smile, tapping his fingers anxiously against his briefcase as Face continued. "I believe we spoke on the phone."

The guard eyed them warily and shook his head. "Sorry, it wasn't me you talked to. What's this about?"

"Ah, well." Face didn't let the bump in the road slow him down in the least. "That's okay. I'm here to pick up the 1984 Saleen Mustang."

The guard's eyes narrowed in skepticism. "I was told there wouldn't be someone here for that until tomorrow," he challenged.

Face shrugged. "Well, after I spoke to the division head, I decided it would be best if I came right away." He smiled and leaned in a little, lowering his voice. "You know how it is. Everybody's just so uptight about all this and there will be hell to pay if it doesn't get resolved pretty quickly. I figured it was worth the red-eye flight to get it taken care of. I'm supposed to have this thing back in Detroit -" he checked his watch "- before start of business Friday. Now, between you and me, I don't think that's going to happen, what with the regulations on drive time the truckers face. I mean, it's not like we just have to drive it down the street..."

The guard studied him as he rambled. Murdock kept a tight smile on his face and one eye on the man. The other was watching the figure on the security camera in the booth. Silhouetted by the lights blasting from behind him, Alan cut the links in the car lot fence with speed and precision that evidenced years of practice. A second later, he slit the tarp wide open and stepped into full view of the camera with only two black bandanas to hide his face and hair - one above and one below his eyes.

"I called the tow company and told them to meet us here," Face continued, never pausing to take a breath. "We've got to put it on a bed, see, so we don't rack up the miles on the engine. This is a very particular model, I don't know if you realize. And we had to work out a special arrangement with the tow company to have them travel so far. We would've used our own, you see, but with the time factor we had to rely on the locals."

With a sort of nodding shake of his head, the guard acknowledged the stream of chatter and Alan made his way quickly over to the car Murdock had already picked out amongst the others, all rather plain-looking in comparison.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Face rambled on. "I'm sure you all do fine work here in Hollywood, but we like to do things more concretely where I come from. So when my boss says I have to -"

"I'm sorry," the guard finally interrupted, holding up a hand in a pitiful attempt to shut Face up. "But I can't let you in here without talking to my supervisor first."

Taking his cue, Murdock stepped forward, nearly pushing Face out of the way. "Then get him on the phone," Murdock ordered, his tone distinctly more irritable and ten times as forceful as Face's. "Or are we just going to stand here staring at each other all night!"

Face shot him a glare and a whispered, "Will you please just let me handle this?", then smiled again at the guard. "Sorry. He's tired and it was kind of a rough flight. The airline lost our luggage, you know."

"Which they wouldn't have done if we'd just carried it on with us like I told you!" Murdock snapped.

The guard watched, dumbfounded, as the two of them shared a brief argument. It was enough to keep his attention firmly fixed while Alan carefully unlocked and pulled open the door of a white car.

Finally, Murdock turned and paced a few anxious, irritated steps away. "Sorry about that," Face offered, giving the guard his best smile. "Your supervisor? If you don't mind? We're kind of in a hurry to get back with this car before anything else goes wrong."

Murdock let out a sigh of relief as he saw the car pull out of its designated space. Turning away, he leaned in closer to Face while the guard was distracted with the call to the night supervisor. "How long do you wanna milk this?" he asked quietly.

"As long as we can," Face replied discreetly, pausing for a smile in the guard's direction before he finished in a whisper. "The longer we keep these guys entertained, the further away Alan gets with that car before anyone's chasing him."

 **1985**

Over the years, Face had run through a shocking number of scams with Murdock, playing off of each other and reading silent cues like it was second nature. He could tell when Murdock was off his game. And this time, too quiet and a little too fake and definitely too distracted, he definitely had other things on his mind.

As the irritable assistant - or whoever he was supposed to be, since he'd never really specified - failed to make a lasting impression of irritability, it fell to the "executive director of recovery operations" to put on a show for both the security guard and his manager when they realized the car was missing.

"This is crazy!" Face yelled. "You mean to tell me that while we were standing right here talking to your security guard - the _security_ guard, of all people! - that someone broke into the police impound and stole the car that we flew a thousand miles - in the middle of the night! - to recover?"

The security guard was noticeably silent as his supervisor stood beside him, trying to calm Face down. "I'm sure he won't get far," he reassured, a bit too patronizing to be effective. Not to mention Alan was probably halfway to Mexico by now.

"He'd better not!" Face continued angrily, nearly shaking with prefabricated frustrations. He was at least confident in his ability to sell the act to the two guilty-looking, confused, and apologetic employees. "I want the name of your supervisor! Your highest authority! I'll sue!"

"Roy, let's just get out of here." Murdock sounded way too tired for his role. It filled Face with some genuine irritation he used to fuel the elaborate show. "Let Mr. Prentice handle it."

"Oh, Mr. Prentice will hear about it alright!" Face yelled. "So will my lawyer! And my senator! I'll have you all fired! I'll see to it!"

Murdock was already leading him away as Face called his last few insults over his shoulder. As they walked back to the rental car, Murdock got into the driver's seat. Still muttering curses loud enough for the two men to hear, Face got in the other side of the car and slammed the door.

"What the hell was that?" Face asked as Murdock started the car.

Blinking in confusion, Murdock glanced at him as if he'd just asked why the sky was green. "Huh?"

Face's annoyance turned quite suddenly to concern as he saw the bewildered look and realized just how far Murdock had receded into his thoughts to not even realize how it was affecting him. "You okay?" Face asked sincerely.

"Yeah," Murdock answered unconvincingly, pulling out of the parking space and heading for the road. "Sure. Why?"

"You seem -" Face paused to choose his words carefully. "- distracted."

Murdock shrugged.

Realizing he'd get no definitive answer and frankly too tired to care, Face loosened his tie, rolled down the window to let in the warm night air, and rested his head back on the seat. They would be driving through the night to get back to Hannibal and BA and Corrolini's Mexican mansion. A few minutes of sleep now would mean Face could take the wheel later.

He was just starting to doze off when Murdock's voice unexpectedly cut into his rest. "Hey, Face?"

"Hmm?" he replied lazily.

"You remember when I crashed that chopper into the Bong Son River?"

Startled by the last question he'd ever expected to hear, Face sat up and stared in confusion. "What?" he clipped. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Murdock shrugged again, keeping his eyes on the road. "Just wondering."

Face frowned. That had to be the most random thing Murdock had brought up in a very long time. It wasn't terribly significant in the grander scheme of things. The first few choppers Murdock had crashed held a lot more consequence, to say nothing of the final one before leaving Vietnam. The Bong Son River incident was just a blip in Face's memory of the many antics and trouble they'd gotten into back then.

"How did you ever get that cleared up?" Murdock wondered out loud, clearly lost in thought.

Frown deepening, Face studied him. "You're asking me to remember my lines from - what? - twelve years ago? Thirteen?"

"Just wondering," Murdock said again with the same impassive shrug.

"Why?" Face looked away, shifting uncomfortably. He didn't like talking about Vietnam on a good day, much less on a day when Murdock seemed distracted and broody. God knew what kind of memories could be dragged to the surface.

Murdock didn't answer, didn't justify the question or its need to be answered. Finally, Face sighed and leaned back again, closing his eyes. "I don't remember," he lied, answering safely as they pulled onto the near empty freeway. "It was a long time ago."

Murdock nodded slowly. Thankfully, he didn't ask again.

 **1971**

The details of the team's current mission were somewhat lost on Murdock. He woke up at the controls of a Huey like he'd just been startled out of a dream, blinking in confusion and struggling to figure out how the hell he'd gotten... wherever he was. Although it wasn't the first time he'd lost track of his surroundings, this was certainly more disorienting than normal. In fact, the last time it had happened, he'd woken up in wreckage...

A moment of panic at the memory filled the next few seconds. But no, he was still in the air and everything seemed fine. Fumbling through procedures and relying heavily on the peter pilot as he tried to figure out what the hell he was doing, he frantically put the pieces together as he gleaned them. Two small squads were engaged with an entire company of NVA, somewhere below. One of those squads was Murdock's team.

He set aside the blackout's confusion in the way he'd grown so accustomed to doing lately. If his team was in danger, he knew precisely how he'd ended up here. Raining fire from heaven could not have stopped him from commandeering the med-evac Huey sent out after them, much less a little exhaustion. Especially considering the FAC reported every single one of the men were wounded...

"It's too hot," Snap protested. "There's no way we'll make it down there."

"I have it," Murdock answered, taking control of the chopper.

The younger pilot took his hands and feet obediently away from the controls, but his protests didn't die down. "Sir, we can't go -"

He was cut off by a cry that sounded like something out of a "cowboys and Indians" movie. Too stunned and horrified to respond, he braced himself as Murdock lowered the aircraft into the combat zone, still moving forward as he dropped down into the open field. There was a group of men huddled and waiting on the opposite side. Among them, Murdock had already identified Face - and he was still standing. Armed with that bit of information, he was taking this chopper down if it killed him.

The bullets pinging on the sides of the Huey didn't escape unnoticed. The gunners - one on either side - let out a holler to match the pilot's as they opened fire on the enemy below. Murdock heard the copilot cry out. He didn't have time to see why. Suddenly, as if all at once, the control arm stopped responding at the same moment that the back of the chopper burst into flames.

The copilot let out a cry of alarm. Murdock didn't have a chance. At least they weren't far off the ground; he knew they would survive the impact of six thousand pounds falling from a height of ten feet. The bigger concern was whether the chopper would catch fire. Although there was nothing he could've done to prevent it - at least, nothing that didn't also involve abandoning his team - Murdock felt the briefest flicker of self-anger as they hit the ground with such impact it nearly broke his teeth.

 _Run away! Run away!_ A thousand tiny voices echoed in chorus as he sprang instinctively out of the harness, out of the side of the chopper, onto the ground. It took him a few seconds to come to his senses and realize what had happened. Almost simultaneously, he realized the anger had turned to hysterical laughter somewhere along the way. Forget whose fault it was, this was too much fun to be real. Maybe he was just dreaming.

Ignoring the still-real danger of fire, he sprang back up into the cockpit and reached across, grabbing the shoulders of the unconscious copilot. Dragging him out and onto the grass, he looked up briefly as a soldier dove into the back of the chopper. Only a few seconds later, the man re-emerged with one of the gunners draped over his shoulders. Hard to tell if he was dead or alive, but he was bleeding.

More immediately recognizable to Murdock was the man who was carrying him. "Face!" he called out with glee.

Face dropped to a crouch beside him, looking out across the open field. It was at least two hundred yards to the tree line. "How many of these choppers are you going to crash, you crazy bastard?" Face demanded, out of breath and drenched with sweat.

"Well, that was number three," Murdock yelled back with a brilliant smile. "But the first one doesn't count."

He didn't hear Face's reply, if he even bothered with one. Still a bit disoriented and dizzy with the euphoria of danger, the exhaustion of the past week and a half vanished in the adrenaline burning hot in his veins. Only vaguely aware of the threat posed by the bullets pinging around them, he threw Snap over his shoulders in the same carry Face used for the gunner.

"Stay down and right behind me!" Face ordered.

Using one arm to hold the man across his shoulders, Murdock grabbed his pistol with the other. Then he took off after Face as fast as his legs could carry him. They ran a few yards, fell into the tall grass, caught their breath, then ran again.

By the time they reached the edge of the clearing, under the covering fire of the SOG Yards, Murdock had emptied his revolver. He tossed it aside at the first sight of a bigger gun, in the grip of a dead Yard. Wrenching it out of the body's arms, he returned to the front line and dropped to the dirt next to Face with a huge grin on his lips and a crazed look in his eyes.

"Let's kill these motherfuckers!" he yelled enthusiastically as he wondered how long it would take another extraction team to come get them out.

Only vaguely, in a remote corner of his mind, did he realize it really wasn't normal to enjoy danger quite so much. And, for that matter, he knew he was the only one who could hear the chorus of upbeat gospel songs being sung to the tune of AK fire. But he didn't care. A bit of crazy was just what he needed right now to stay sane.

 **1971**

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Face demanded angrily, grabbing Murdock's shirt and shoving him back against the sandbag wall of the medical treatment room. "This isn't a goddamn game!"

Putting up his hands in surrender, Murdock stared back at him with wide eyes, as if not entirely sure why anyone would take offense to a summary of what they'd just lived through as "good fun".

"People _died_ out there, flyboy!" Face snapped. "O'Reilly's entire fucking team got wiped out. There's still bodies we haven't recovered!"

Murdock smiled, tactlessly, as though none of this fazed him.

"Yeah, that's true," he admitted, quickly covering over the brief moment of seriousness with a lighter tone. "But we did good!"

Face gave him a good shove, concerned that if he remained so close, he might just put a fist through the crazy pilot's nose.

"You might never dance the Tango again," Murdock continued with a flimsy gesture toward Face's bare leg and the fresh stitches the nurse had just finished moments before. "But then again, you might. Doesn't look half bad for a leg wound."

It was true the bullet would've done a lot more damage if it had been a little further to the left. Of course, it would've done no damage at all if it had been a half inch to the right. More than a graze but less than a wound, it had made a path clean through his thigh muscle.

"You were just saying you needed some time off, anyways," Murdock said.

Face growled. He wasn't sure why the pilot failed to grasp what had just transpired, but his anger grew with every new, stupidly happy line from the man's mouth. "Your copilot has a concussion," he reminded.

"He'll be up and doing everything by the book and in triplicate in no time," Murdock replied with a smile and a shrug. "He's awake and feels fine."

"They're digging shrapnel out of BA's back," Face continued, "and Nun's face. He's lost an eye. One of your gunners died at the crash and the other one has three bullet wounds and two broken ribs. We completely failed our mission objective. Just how the hell did we do 'good'?"

Murdock's ecstatic smile faded just a bit into one more patient and knowing. "'Cause, Face," he said, "what we did out there today... it _matters_."

There was an odd, almost amazed tone to his voice. Face shook his head, suppressing his anger and turning away. Something was distinctly wrong with the pilot. He'd known it from the moment Murdock showed up again, reenlisted after discharge and sporting Army patches now. The something in his eyes was more and more visible every day in the way he acted and the way he thought. He was damaged, and the longer it dragged on, the more visible and extreme his irrationality became. Sooner or later, Face thought with mounting anger he simply didn't have the energy for, it was likely to cost their lives.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

 **1985**

Murdock was laughing as he stepped out of the silver rental car. Mostly, the chuckle was brought on by the sight of Alan, wearing a path in the dirt as he paced back and forth while Hannibal casually played solitaire on the hood of the rare car. As he exited the other side of the rental, Face's attention turned immediately to the sleek vehicle parked right next to the van, sparkling in the midday sun.

"No problems," Murdock declared with a self-satisfied grin, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

"At least until later today, when the real representatives from Ford show up," Face added, apparently listening even though his attention seemed firmly fixed on the car. "Then I imagine that security guard is going to have quite a significant problem."

Hannibal looked pleased. Or perhaps he was simply anxious to get on with the show. Able to travel much faster than the two following him in the rental car, Alan had probably arrived several hours ago.

"We got the radios set up," Hannibal informed, packing up his card game. "This mercenary Corrolini hired is named Joseph Linus."

Face looked up immediately, his attention jerked abruptly away from the pretty car. "Joseph Linus of the Wondersun Brothers Gang?"

Hannibal smiled, clearly amused. "You've heard of him."

"Sure, I've heard of him." Face walked around the car, crossing his arms with a worried look on his face. "I also did some business with him in 'Nam. The guy was a lunatic."

"I resemble that remark," Murdock replied, indignant.

"He ran speed out of Japan during the war," Face explained, shifting uncomfortably. "Dishonorably discharged in '70, and he started the Wondersun Brothers Gang with his best friend and their girlfriends. Cocaine smuggling. Last I heard, he's a suspect in almost two dozen murders."

Hannibal nodded his understanding. "Sounds like quite a guy!"

Wearing his best "not amused" look, the way he always did when Hannibal got that twinkle in his eye, Face shook his head. "The guy is nuts, Hannibal. I think he slept a grand total of five hours through his whole tour. You know what that does to a person's brain?"

Murdock spent a few minutes very carefully considering what that would do to a person's brain.

"Based on what we've heard," Hannibal continued, "I'd say it's a pretty good bet that Corrolini has never actually met him face to face. If one of us goes in there, pretending to be Linus -"

"By somebody, you mean...?" Face interrupted with a look that was somewhere between worry and disgust.

"I could do it," Murdock offered with a shrug. Playing the part of a lunatic didn't intimidate him in the least.

Hannibal smiled broadly. "I thought you might find it entertaining."

With a grin of his own, Murdock contemplated a bit more intensely the level of crazy brought upon by years of recreational drug use and sleep deprivation.

"Face can go with you," Hannibal stated. "Since he's met the guy, he may be able to smooth out any... misunderstandings."

"And by misunderstandings," Face shot back with a deep scowl, "you mean if Corrolini recognizes us as a fraud because maybe he's actually met the guy - who Murdock doesn't look anything like, I might add."

"Exactly!" Hannibal grinned.

"So, let me make sure I understand this," Alan said, lighting the end of a new cigarette with the butt of the last before dropping it into the impressive pile in the sandy dirt. "Murdock is a mercenary who's bringing me to Corrolini? I thought there were a dozen reasons why you didn't want me going in there."

"I didn't want you going in there _alone_ ," Hannibal clarified. "Especially without contact. Joseph Linus and his trusted companion -" a quick glance at Face received a heavy sigh "- will keep an eye on you. And in the meantime, Chris Jackson will wait for the opportune moment to deliver this car."

"Man already called him," BA informed. "He said he'd do it, real quick like. That part of the plan should go smooth. Long as he don't show up."

"He won't," Alan said confidently. "He's only got two other options to get that car, and neither one of them will be fast."

"Well if he does show up," Hannibal shrugged, "BA will just have to intercept him."

BA scowled, clearly not impressed by that part of the "smooth plan".

"And what are we supposed to do when we get Alan in there?" Face challenged, frowning deeply. "Ask to inspect the holding facilities? Corrolini will most likely want to lock up Alan, pay us, and escort us off the premises."

Hannibal smiled and clapped a hand over Face's shoulder. "Don't worry, Face. If everything goes according to plan, you and I will be escorted together."

With a deep sigh, Face rolled his eyes. "Hannibal, I don't like the number of 'ifs' in this plan..."

Hannibal looked past them, into the back of the van. "BA, I need you to do something about their phone lines. We don't need the real Joseph Linus or Chris Jackson calling while we're in there."

"Right," BA answered.

"You really think this is gonna work?" Alan asked with a lingering look at Face. The skepticism was shared between the two of them. "You think we're just gonna walk out of there when it's over?"

Hannibal remained unmoved. With a grin, he reached for his gloves, slipping them on. "Well, if we don't," he answered ambitiously, "at least we can say we tried."

Murdock hid a smirk at the look of worry on Alan's face, then turned away with a sinister laugh as he slipped deeper and deeper into Joseph Linus' psychoses. They were not so different, when he really got into the core of the character, from his own. In fact, he saw no reason not to tap into some of his own memories, to let them come, let them consume, and slip into the comfort of complete mental and emotional abandon.

 **1971**

Warrant Officer Charles "Snap" Pelt looked nervous as all hell. Murdock couldn't blame him. The poor co-pilot, still nursing his wounds from the crash that had ended in the most exciting few minutes of Murdock's adult life, was stuck in a UH-1 with a questionably sane AC and two stir-crazy adrenaline junkies in the back. Luckily for him, it was just a "fun run" - a way to get off base. And, if he had to choose, BA was probably the least addicted to the rush. It should've made Snap feel better to know he, at least, was more interested in getting back alive than finding his fix.

They'd not only volunteered, but Face had actually pulled some strings to get them clearance. The commander didn't want to take the risk of pissing off General Westman by getting the general's favorite SOG unit killed on a mission they shouldn't have been authorized for in the first place. Face had assured him that they would proceed with the utmost caution. And it was just an ash-and-trash, nothing even remotely dangerous...

Murdock was itching for something more exciting. Ever since the crash and ensuing firefight, they'd been locked up on a base near the An Lao Valley. For days they'd been drilling and prepping, utterly bored but unable to move until the REMFs sorted through the bureaucratic bullshit keeping them there. They couldn't go into the field with injuries on the team, but they couldn't get leave without permission and paperwork.

The days passed slowly. They had nothing to do but training and - once they'd all beaten that horse to death - entertain themselves with beer and pranks of varying degrees of decency. Cipher was particularly good at inventing new and interesting ways to spend time. The camp had seen everything from an impromptu fireworks display that had everyone convinced they were taking enemy fire to the giant snake placed ever-so-carefully in the irritable and unfriendly mess sergeant's bunk. Murdock was pretty sure the commander was glad to see them go, if only for a few hours.

"Howlin' Mad One-Niner, this is Phoenix GCA - do you copy?"

Leaning back and looking out the open cockpit door at the passing canopy below, Murdock was enjoying the breeze and the crystal-clear visibility as the UH-1 headed out to one of the camps with a cargo full of water and miscellaneous odds and ends by request. He didn't look away from the scenery as he reached up to click his mic. "Howlin' Mad, readin' you loud and clear. Go 'head Phoenix."

"We've got quite a battle about five miles north of you. They're requesting casualty extraction."

Murdock groaned, but kept it out of his voice as he answered back. "Copy, Phoenix. Is the LZ red? 'Cause you know, Captain Jeffries has this thing with the color red an' he told us not to go near anything that ain't bright, happy, springtime grass green." As he turned his attention to the north, he realized he was already able to see the choppers buzzing around the area.

"LZ should be green, One-Niner," ground control reported. "You'll put down west of the fighting by at least five hundred yards."

"Oooh, a whole five hundred?" he smirked. "Sounds like a good time to me. I have a visual on the combat zone an' we're goin' in! Howlin' Mad, over and out."

For Snap's benefit, he pointed in the direction of the battle, and the bird turned gradually towards it as Murdock flipped the radio over to the intercom. "Casualty pickup," he informed his two gunners.

For a moment, there was no answer. Then a simple, "Copy," from Face. He wouldn't have expected much more. Picking up dead soldiers was nobody's cup of tea. The surprisingly good day Murdock had been enjoying was about to take a turn.

The entire area around the combat zone was buzzing with the rattle of chopper rotors and AK-47s. The LZ was west of the heaviest fighting, wide and clear enough that Murdock felt no need to take the controls away from Snap. As soon as they touched down on the soft ground, battle-worn soldiers carried the bodies to the chopper in a solemn procession. Soaked in sweat and covered in mud, they moved quickly but still took time to say their good-byes. It would be the only chance they had to do so.

Two of the bodies were bagged, but the others were uncovered. They must have run out of bags for them. Bloody and mangled, they were loaded into the back of the Huey just as they were. The familiar, sickening smell of death made Murdock's stomach turn. He would never get used to that smell. The lifeless bodies, oozing blood and other fluids onto the floor, were his least favorite cargo by far. There was no hope for them. No amount of skill, effort, or determination could save them now. Murdock could travel as fast or as slow as he wanted to the base. It didn't really matter.

"You'd better get outta here, man," one of the weary soldiers advised, yelling up at him over the beating of the chopper blades. "There's snipers everywhere."

"Thanks, soldier," he called down. "Hang in there."

The man offered a weak, forced smile as he stepped back. "Clear?" Murdock called back.

"All clear on the left!"

"Clear on the right!"

Murdock signaled to Snap and he lifted off, heading for the medical detachment pad back at the base. Once there, the bodies were unloaded, leaving a grotesque pool of blood and body parts in the back of the Huey. Noting the slightly-green peter pilot, he offered to fly solo to the river so they could clean the back of the Huey. But Snap declined the free pass, and stayed put as Murdock requested clearance to fly to the river.

Snap made a reasonably smooth landing on the sandbars in the Bong Son River. He hadn't said a word besides the requisite acknowledgements since they'd picked up the bodies. He didn't speak now, either, as they washed the back of the chopper as much as possible with the muddy water and a few plastic pails.

"You okay, kid?" Murdock asked as he tossed another bucket of water over the bloody sludge. It washed through to the other side, turning red as it went, and dropped back into the shallow river, carrying the evidence of war's cruelty downstream.

Snap looked up and forced a smile. "Never seen it so up close before, sir."

Murdock smiled faintly. It was standard practice to stick the youngest, most inexperienced pilots with the most seasoned ones, but he still hadn't quite figured out why Hannibal had pulled this kid into "the team" proper. Snap still had to fight the urge to salute anything in fatigues, a habit left over from his training. It drove Murdock nuts. Unless it was an ass-chewing or a first meeting, salutes and titles were not used in Vietnam. It felt... awkward.

"Well, I have seen it up close," Murdock replied. "Lots of times. And it still bothers me." He heaved another bucket of water, and it sloshed out the other side. "I think if it ever stops bothering you, you ain't even human anymore."

"Hey, Murdock, check it out!"

Murdock glanced up and shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up at an enthusiastic, excited Face. "Present company excluded," he smiled politely, for Snap's benefit. Face was far too distant to hear the conversation.

Holding up two standard issue army air mattresses from the supplies that had never made it to their destination, the young lieutenant was grinning from ear to ear. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he intended to do with them.

Neither BA nor Snap were up for a swim. Murdock didn't feel particularly up for it either, but he was more than happy to cash in on Face's surprisingly good mood. He'd kept his distance since the crash, and Murdock got the impression he still hadn't quite worked through the ramifications. The kid masked pain well, under a smile that he'd not yet learned could be misconstrued as shallow and even disrespectful. But really, Face used the same escapism that they all did, just in a slightly different way. Instead of escaping to alcohol, or to the comfort of like-wounded companions - real or imagined - he escaped somewhere into himself where none of this bothered him and kept everyone at a safe distance.

So into the water the two men dove, stripped to their shorts and splashing like carefree children in an effort to forget everything they had experienced in the past few days, weeks, months... The river was shallow, probably only ten feet at its deepest, and the current was weak. Though the rationale had remained unspoken, Face had been absolutely right - the cool water was a welcome relief, soothing both to their overheated bodies and their overly traumatized minds.

As Face reminisced aloud about long-gone days back in the States - mostly about the beautiful round-eyed women - Murdock's own thoughts wandered. He would die here, he was pretty sure. But each new day that he survived, he had to think of what it would be like to return to the USA - to "normal" life. Face had certainly thought about it, even if he would freely admit that he didn't ever expect to see "home" again. To Murdock, "home" was no longer a welcoming thought. He'd experienced the emotional confusion of returning to normal life. He wasn't looking forward to experiencing it again. Even if he went back to the States, even if the war ended... he knew deep inside that he would never leave the military. He couldn't. There was no other place for him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a chopper somewhere overhead, and he looked up. It wasn't uncommon for the Hueys to come here to clean out their cargo areas, but it seemed odd that they were setting up for a landing so damn close to where they could clearly see there was another chopper already parked on the sandbar. Out in the middle of a river about as wide as a football field, Murdock shielded his eyes from the blinding sun as he looked up at the hovering aircraft coming down almost directly over them.

"What the hell do these assholes think they're doing?" he thought out loud. He was sure the pilot overhead could see them in the water.

"Hovering," Face answered brilliantly, the top half of his body lying across his raft.

Suddenly, Murdock realized exactly what they were doing. His eyes went wide. "Shit!" he cried. "Get to the sandbar!"

There was no time, at that point, to even begin the mad dash to the sandbar. The chopper positioned itself not more than ten feet upriver and a foot above the surface of the water. Hurricane force winds from the rotating blades of the helicopter ripped the surface of the otherwise calm river. Both men could do nothing but hold on for dear life as they were sent flying downstream on the rafts. It was an effort just to keep their heads above water as they skidded over the surface, at the mercy of the wind created by the Huey that was following them. Finally, the bird lifted away after pushing them a good 150 yards from their original destination. It returned to land about fifty feet from Murdock's chopper.

The two soldiers were left to paddle and walk against the current, all the way back to where they had started. Murdock was irritated - even pissed off - but he had never seen Face quite so vocal about his contempt for the offending party. It was almost comical. The lieutenant had vented his anger and adrenaline on scores upon scores of VC with only a few four-letter words here and there. But turned on the pilots of that chopper, his tongue was like a whip. As Face yelled obscenities drawn from the furthest corners of his vocabulary, conjuring up words Murdock had never even heard before, Murdock found that his amusement almost overcame his own frustration.

The men in the intruding chopper were laughing as the two of them swam past. The pilot gestured his apology with a shrug as they passed the bird, as if to say that they hadn't seen them. It only seemed to infuriate Face more. He told them things about their mothers, their sisters, and their dogs, shouted out little-known facts about their anatomies, and finally called them something that rhymed with "yogurt" before reaching the Huey.

Once inside, to the confusion and bewilderment of BA and the peter pilot, Face tucked himself out of sight of the other chopper and started laughing.

"Can you believe those guys!" he cried.

"What happened?" BA demanded.

Face turned and stared at him for a moment as Murdock strapped himself into the left pilot's seat. "Did you not see that? They pushed us halfway down the river!" But his laughter made it clear that he was not nearly as infuriated as he'd led the other team to believe.

Murdock had a few ideas of his own for how to communicate his appreciation for the prank. The peter pilot was barely strapped in when the chopper was light on the skids. "Clear behind us?" Murdock called back.

Face was already near the door. It only took him a second to look out to the back of the chopper. It took BA a moment longer; he'd been attempting to secure the tool box in the cargo area. He raced to the left side to look back and gave a quick, "All clear!"

A dark shadow passed over Murdock's eyes as the corners of his mouth quirked up into an evil smirk. He hovered just above the water for a moment, feeling the weight of the Huey, the balance, the pitch... When properly executed, a rear takeoff was as beautiful as it was difficult. The cyclic, pedals, and collective pitch controls all had to be perfectly synced with the pilot. He would have to slam everything all at once, just right, to get the chopper to turn 180 degrees on its vertical access. And he would do this just a few feet from the Huey parked nearby, and scare the hell out of them. He knew he could pull it off. He'd done a rear takeoff a hundred times before.

He keyed the mic as he smirked at the laughing bastards only about 20 yards away. "Hey, Face! Watch this!"

Suddenly, the chopper lurched. The peter pilot cried out in surprise as he realized they were heading - backwards - directly for the chopper behind them. Face and BA, in the back of the chopper, had no idea what was about to happen until it was happening.

It was about that same time Murdock realized he'd made a mistake. The Huey's tail was exceptionally low at a normal hover, and four feet off of the sandbar only took him two feet off the water's surface. As he'd applied rear control pressure, the tail had dipped even lower. He realized all of this in a split-second flash. Before there was time for so much as an "oh shit", the tail rotor hit the water. At the speed the blades were rotating, it was like hitting a cement wall. The rotor buckled and warped and detached from the rest of the Huey... along with the entire gearbox.

There went his anti-torque.

With the engine opened up at full power, the chopper whipped violently in the opposite direction from the spinning blades above. The 75-pound toolbox, still not secured in the back of the chopper, hurled forward between Murdock and the peter pilot, and smashed through the front windshield, taking half of the instrument panel with it before it crashed into the river somewhere below them.

Murdock's co-pilot was panicking. Having been repeatedly trained for tail rotor failure, Murdock knew to cut the engine and land in an autorotation. But before he could do that, he had another problem. Without the weight of the rotor and gearbox on the back end of the chopper, they were suddenly extremely nose-heavy. He had to be at least somewhat level before cutting power or they would crash. If he could just get level, he knew he could still land safely.

In another two seconds, in spite of his efforts, it didn't matter anyway. The chopper tipped a little too far to the left in its spin and the top rotor hit the water's surface. The Huey ceased to fly and they slammed hard into the water - six thousand pounds of metal dropped from a height of ten feet. The sound, and the jarring impact, was mind-numbing.

As Murdock realized he was still breathing, he could hear Snap screaming - a continuous yell of, "Oh God! Oh Jesus!" But if he was yelling so enthusiastically, he couldn't be too badly hurt.

Murdock set to the task of pulling himself out of the mangled chopper. In only a few seconds, he had help from the outside; BA was jerking on the door almost frantically. Realizing it was jammed, Murdock pulled the emergency release, and the door fell off its hinges. BA pulled it back and jumped out of the way as it splashed into the water. "You alright?" BA was wide-eyed. Frantic. "What happened? You okay?"

"Oh... just a slight miscalculation," Murdock answered casually.

"Miscalculation?" BA yelled. "Miscalculation! Are you crazy? You could've killed us all!"

"Yeah, uh... Help me outta here, will you?" He grinned as BA took his arm. "You know that's JP4 you're standing in, right?"

BA almost lost his grip on Murdock's arm as he jumped in surprise, looking frantically around at the jet fuel-tainted river water. Knowing the danger made him work that much harder and faster, and in no time at all, he'd dragged Murdock out of the seat, and both of them waded to the shore. Once there, Murdock looked back to see Face and Snap swimming away from the wreckage. The wrong way.

"Hey Faceman!" he called, cupping his hands over his mouth for a bullhorn. Face and Snap both looked toward him, wide-eyed and horrified. "Swim upstream, jackass! Not downstream!"

They reversed their direction but they went wide - out into the deeper water so as to avoid the fuel streaming into the river. As they came closer, Murdock started walking - a few paces down the edge of the water, toward the other chopper and the crew that was standing stock still, awestruck by what they had just seen. "What was it I was supposed to watch, Murdock?" Face called as he came within reasonable talking distance.

"Yeah, how'd you like that takeoff?" Murdock grinned back.

Face laughed, but it sounded a little more hysterical than humored. "Jesus, Murdock, how are we supposed to explain this? You know what it took to get them to let us off that base for a simple supply run? And now you just crashed their chopper in the river!"

"We...! I...!" Snap had no words as he stumbled to shore. "I could...! I could lose my wings for...! But I didn't...!"

"Nah, don't worry 'bout it, kid," Murdock assured him with a wave. "I'll take care of it."

"You'll take care of it?" Face challenged with a disbelieving laugh. "I'm the one who stuck my neck out to get us this chopper!"

"Alright, so you'll take care of it," Murdock shrugged. Before Face had a chance to respond, Murdock raised his hands to his mouth again and shouted at the top of his lungs at the other chopper. "Hey you! Assholes downriver!" The entire crew still stood gaping. "That's JP4 you're standing in, you idiots! Anybody got a match?"

Murdock chuckled as he watched them look at the water all around them, as if they hadn't figured out yet that they were standing in jet fuel. "Look at those fools," he grinned at the peter pilot. "Can you believe they're just sitting there?"

"You're the fool, Murdock!" BA grabbed his shoulder, jerking him back a little. "You coulda killed us all!"

"But I didn't," Murdock reminded with a wide grin. He pulled away and BA let him go, not entirely sure what else to do with him. Murdock immediately turned back to the other chopper crew, jumping at the opportunity to further antagonize them. "Hey, stupid! I think I left the battery switch on!"

At that, the crew scrambled to their places and prepped for dust off. Murdock laughed.

"Geez, Murdock..." Face had his palm against his cheek as he shook his head, surveying the damage. That chopper would never fly again.

Murdock chuckled as he glanced around him. "Seriously, anybody got a dry match?"

BA grabbed his shirt again. This time, his other fist was raised.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

 **1985**

"We should kill 'im," Murdock hissed, turning with snakelike contortion until he was sitting backwards on the passenger side of the rental car. In the back seat, handcuffed and genuinely concerned by the inhuman behavior of the creature that only superficially resembled his younger brother, Alan squirmed.

"The bounty said dead or alive, right?" Murdock grinned.

While Alan tried to determine the nature of the threat underlying that statement, Face merely sighed. "Alive would be preferable," he said lightly, as if he didn't have a particularly strong opinion either way.

Half-falling into the space between the two front seats, Murdock leaned into the backseat, flipping open a pocketknife. Alan leaned back as the cool blade scratched along his unshaven cheek. "Hey, watch it!" Alan glared, jerking his head away when Murdock leaned in further. The bumps on the road would not consider the sharp blade, and he didn't entirely trust the steadiness of Murdock's hand even if the road had been smooth as glass.

Murdock smiled wickedly, moving the blade to Alan's jaw again and letting the psychotic, wide-eyed facade drop for just a moment into something more genuine. "Bet you wish you were nicer to me when we were kids, right about now, huh?" he taunted.

For just an instant, Alan felt a flicker of real fear. Threats instantly and instinctively came to mind, but he was in no position to make good on them. As if fueled by the victory, Murdock's maniacal smile returned in full force. In the driver's seat of the rental car, Face glanced into the rearview mirror, briefly locking stares with Alan.

"Save it, Murdock," he advised as he fixed his attention on the road again, unconcerned by the level of crazy in the seat beside him. "It's not like we have that far to go."

"All the more reason why I should work fast," Murdock whispered in a voice that sounded more like a demon than a human being. Alan swallowed hard, tipping away from the blade again. His brother had always been a little nuts, but this was the kind of character acting he'd never wanted to see.

The car pulled to a stop at the gate, and Face rolled down the window. "Hi."

"Can I help you?" the guard asked in hesitant English, guessing at the blond driver's first language.

Before Face had a chance to answer, Murdock was across his lap, winding his way out the car window to meet the guard eye to eye. " _Diga a Señor Corrolini que Joseph Linus esta aquí_ ," he growled.

Alan knew very little Spanish, but the threatening tone followed by maniacal laughter was enough to make his skin crawl. Apparently, it had the same effect on the other man because he slid the window of the guard shack closed before reaching for the phone.

"Murdock, will you get off of me?" Face muttered, giving him a shove towards the passenger seat. He shot a brief glare in his direction as the guard poked his head back out.

" _Vaya_ ," the guard ordered as the gate swung open. " _Él esperando por ti_."

Murdock, unable to sit still, jumped up into the open window on his own side of the car. "Forward ho!" he yelled, holding the top of the car as he leaned back and swung his arm forward.

As they drove through the gate and down the winding road, Face reached over and grabbed his pant leg to get his attention. With an ungraceful thump, he slid back down into the seat. "When I said the guy was nuts," Face started. "I didn't mean _this_ nuts."

"Maybe." Murdock grinned, wild eyes dancing as he flicked open his knife again and caressed it with intense interest. "But Corrolini won't know that..."

 **1985**

Hannibal had gone ahead by fifteen minutes. Hopefully, it would be enough time to get settled in. As they pulled up in front of the house, Face cast a quick glance to the garage. The doors were closed and it appeared empty. Stage one of the insane plan seemed to be working out, as long as Hannibal wasn't being held at gunpoint by suspicious guards or possibly Chris Jackson's brother, who knew full well what he was supposed to look like. Two simultaneous impersonations of two people they couldn't be sure Corrolini hadn't seen struck Face as a hell of a risk.

The man who stepped out of the mansion, closing the door behind him, was built like a tank. He wobbled from side to side as he clunked down the steps, at least two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Likely, the man could snap Face in half and still have plenty of energy to do the same to Murdock. Making a mental note, Face hoped the more-than-slightly crazed pilot would have the same insightful realization.

"Sr. Linus?" the grumbling giant asked Face.

Murdock grabbed the roof of the vehicle, pulled himself up into the open window, and declared, "I am Joseph Linus!" before Face had a chance to respond.

The man blinked in surprise, not sure how to respond. He stood still and stared as Murdock crawled out of the car window, dropped to the ground, and opened the back door. Alan stumbled, nearly falling forward on his face, as Murdock dragged him none-too-gently out of the vehicle. Without giving him a chance to fully regain his balance, Murdock shoved him against the front of the car.

"Your prisoner, señor," Murdock smiled wickedly.

Calmly, Face stepped out of the driver's seat. Murdock wasn't showing due deference to the walking tank, but to be fair, it appeared Corrolini's man was a bit wary of the psychotic look in "Sr. Linus'" eyes.

"Should we bring him inside?" Face smiled, interrupting the moment of awkward silence as the two sized each other up. "Or just stand here staring at each other all afternoon?"

As a matter of protocol - or so said their escort - Face and Murdock were frisked and relieved of their weapons before stepping through the heavy wooden front door. Their pistols were handed off to two men in a small, dark room filled with TV monitors. The two security guards hardly paused their conversation, reclining in comfortable office chairs, facing each other as they chatted. Although he didn't have enough time to get a good look at the monitors, Face was immediately scanning for the cameras. But he didn't see any. He hadn't noticed any earlier, either, when they'd planted the bugs. They were all outside, it seemed - a first line of defense. Clearly, they didn't expect any intruders to actually make it through the doors.

A few steps behind Face, Murdock pushed and shoved Alan down the hall and into the study, murmuring threats of feeding him his feet - one toe at a time - if he didn't move faster. Their chaperone glanced uneasily over his shoulder, then leaned in a little closer to Face.

"Is he always like this?" he asked.

"Ah, well." Face shrugged, and gave the man a smile. "He got a little uh... traumatized in the war. You understand."

It was the last thing either of them said before reaching the door to the study. The man knocked, waited for the answer, then stepped inside, ahead of Face. "Mr. Corrolini? Mr. Linus is here to -"

Murdock shoved past, throwing the door open in an extravagant display that nearly knocked all three of them off their feet. "To present your prisoner!"

Still holding Alan by the shirt collar, Murdock jerked him into the room and shoved. Unable to catch his balance, the larger man stumbled and fell. Face watched him hit the carpet, cast a quick glance at Murdock - who clearly enjoyed the opportunity to take his performance a little over the top - then looked at the surprised faces of the others in the room. There was one well-dressed and neatly groomed man behind the desk - Corrolini, he could assume - and two bulky bodyguards standing with guns drawn in surprise at the interruption. Seated comfortably in a chair reserved for guests, Hannibal turned and observed the scene with apparent amusement, unlit cigar in hand.

"Friends of yours?" Hannibal asked casually, glancing back at Corrolini.

"More of an acquaintance," Corrolini answered icily, rising from his chair. His eyes were locked on Alan, without so much as an acknowledgment of the crazy man bouncing on the balls of his feet with unspent energy.

"Get him up!" Corrolini ordered loudly and Murdock immediately sprang forward, beating the guards who circled around the desk. With one hand in his hair and the other gripping his bunched shirt, Murdock yanked Alan upward, then stepped back with a smile as the two men wrenched his arms back and held him fast.

Face inconspicuously closed the distance, standing just behind Murdock and speaking too quietly for anyone else in the room to hear. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were almost enjoying this."

Murdock answered through the teeth of his smile, equally inconspicuous. "You have no idea."

"Mr. Parker," Corrolini said quietly, circling the desk and encroaching on his captive's personal space. "Nice of you to come by."

"Where is my daughter?" Alan demanded. "Is she alive?"

Corrolini snorted with laughter, and Face held his breath in anticipation of the answer they didn't want to hear. "I'm a businessman, Mr. Parker," he replied with a smile that looked almost polite. "Not a barbarian."

The flash of anger Corrolini hadn't managed to control a moment before had now been suppressed beneath a calm blanket of control. But Alan's fury grew hotter. "You killed my wife."

"I am sorry about that," Corrolini conceded with a nod. "It wasn't my first choice but she was less-than-cooperative."

Alan struggled suddenly. The two men on either side of him tightened their grip on his arms, forcing him to his knees before Corrolini's towering authority.

"Take him downstairs," Corrolini ordered, never taking his eyes from Alan's. "I'll deal with him later."

Face did his best to show no reaction to the mention of a "downstairs", but the glimmer of hope made him stand straighter. Maybe, just maybe, they had a chance of pulling this off, particularly since the largest of the guards he'd seen thus far was disappearing with his instructions.

As Alan was paraded through the room and out the door, Corrolini's gaze turned to Murdock for the first time. "Mr. Linus?"

Murdock stood straighter, and grunted an acknowledgment.

Extending a hand, Corrolini studied him curiously. "Pleasure to meet you," he offered, shrinking back slightly as Murdock's wild eyes flashed. He grabbed the proffered hand and shook it so quick and hard, Corrolini's whole arm vibrated.

Pausing for a moment to withdraw his hand, Corrolini regarded Murdock with an even more wary glance. Then, with a scrutinizing look, he turned to Face. "And you are?"

Face opened his mouth to respond, but didn't have a chance before Murdock cut him off. "Where's my money?"

Distracted by the forceful demand, Corrolini turned his full attention back to Murdock. He stared for a moment, taken aback by the abrasiveness.

"Ah, why don't I wait outside?" Face suggested, gesturing over his shoulder. "Since this is a... business matter between the two of you."

"Actually, I should get going, too," Hannibal added, rising to his feet. "Perhaps you could have someone show us both to the door?"

Shaking off his surprise at being so rudely interrupted and regaining his composure, Corrolini nodded to his guest with a smile. "Of course."

Murdock immediately took Hannibal's seat, leaning back and putting his feet up on the desk. Regarding them all out of the corner of his eye, he inspected his fingernails. Face suspected "Sr. Linus" would have no trouble at all keeping Corrolini busy for a few minutes.

"Jose, if you will show these gentlemen out." Corrolini gestured to the man still standing near the door, then turned to shake Hannibal's hand. "Pleasure doing business with you. We'll be in touch."

"Of course," Hannibal smiled back.

Corrolini extended a hand to Face as well, though he still hadn't gotten a name. "Pleasure," he offered with a smile.

Face shook the hand before turning and following Jose, matching Hannibal step for step back through the hallway to the security room near the front door. The two guards they were deposited in front of were smaller than the one who'd come to greet Face at the car, but not by much. With a cordial smile and a nod, Jose departed without the exchange of a single word, disappearing down one of the hallways as the taller of the two guards reached into the closet behind him. The other stayed seated in front of the monitors, glancing only briefly at them before returning to his newspaper.

"Here are your weapons."

"Ah, thank you," Face smiled, strapping the holster around his shoulders. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Hannibal did the same. Once he was situated, Face casually withdrew the pistol from the holster and, with a smile, pointed it at the slightly taller man's chest. At the same time, Hannibal leveled a gun at the seated man's forehead.

It took a moment for the reality of the situation to sink in for their two hostages. But when it did, their eyes went wide - whether with fear or simply disbelief that anyone would try something so foolhardy, Face couldn't tell.

"Now," Hannibal started cordially as Face reached across and disarmed the guard standing in front of him. "They took Alan Parker 'downstairs.' If you would be so kind as to show us the way, we'd be much obliged."

 **1971**

Tucked into a quiet room in a corner of the Da Nang Air Base, Murdock had not been surrounded by such comfort as solid walls and permanent construction in far too long. Although it didn't seem to affect the others, it made him feel very much out of his element. Receiving orders from Hannibal while seated in plastic chairs around a clean, pre-fabricated table simply felt wrong. But there were so many things wrong about everything Murdock was seeing and hearing and feeling right now, he couldn't quite contain them all.

Cipher was gone - back to the States with injuries that wouldn't heal anytime soon. Face had long been swinging between slightly melodramatic and altogether vicious in his treatment of anyone who suffered the pretense of actually giving a damn about him - a trait which Murdock, as one of those people who genuinely did care, had grown uncomfortably familiar with over the past few days, weeks, months... Time was altogether blurred, as was Murdock's own memory and coherent understanding of events that transpired on a day-to-day basis. Living in something of a haze, never quite distinguishing between the reality of the hell he lived in and the hallucinations that quite often felt more real, he was disconnected.

Murdock had injuries. He was reminded of the cracked ribs every time he breathed and the concerned looks from Hannibal had not escaped unnoticed. Since he'd obtained these injuries, Face was being surprisingly nice and BA rarely let Murdock out of his sight for the past... oh, who-knew-how-long. Murdock's own memory of the beating his body had suffered involved red-eyed monsters with baseball bats - neither of which were a traditional side dish to the danger of Vietnam. A few months ago, it would have concerned him to truly not know what had happened to him and how and why. Now he couldn't care less. Out of his goddamn mind and too far gone to even care, he concerned himself with each task as it came. He could still fly; that was the important part.

Hannibal now ran a three-man team on the ground, with Murdock in the air and no backup to speak of. Maybe it was sabotage from the higher ups, not replacing Boston, or Bulldog, or Cipher. But frankly, Murdock wasn't even sure who would make that call. Maybe it was Hannibal who chose not to replace them, out of fear that their successors would only share their fate and rattle the core of the team that remained. Besides, it didn't matter whether they had four on the team or ten. Murdock could feel in his bones that things were coming to a close. Not the war - that didn't look like it would be over anytime soon. In fact, there was no particular reason for this sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach as he listened to Hannibal's brief of their latest assignment. It was simply there, without reason, but overwhelming in its reality.

"He wants us to what?" Face laughed tensely as Hannibal paused to give them a moment to respond to the briefing.

"Hannibal, that don't sound good," BA added in a worried tone.

"Good?" Face cried. "It doesn't even sound possible!"

Murdock watched silently, eyes shifting back and forth as the startled reactions resonated with his own unspoken first thoughts. One would think he would've gotten used to this by now. Nearly every mission they were assigned sounded downright impossible on first consideration. But remarkably, they successfully completed nearly every mission they were handed.

"What brilliant mind thought this one up?" Face demanded.

"Colonel Morrison," Hannibal answered offhandedly, studying the paperwork with more intensity than he normally afforded. Most of the time, he was already jazzed up by the time he briefed the team. He seemed quite contemplative about the prospect of robbing a bank deep in enemy territory.

"And Westman wants us to do this?" Face asked with a shake of his head.

"Actually," Hannibal admitted, "I don't think Morrison ever fully explained the details to him."

"I don't know, Hannibal." BA sounded more deeply concerned about this assignment than any other he'd ever been briefed on. "Robbing the Bank of Hanoi..."

Murdock's gaze lowered. "That could be misconstrued as violating the terms of warfare in so many ways," he added, under his breath.

"Uh, yeah, and - bigger problem - we're Americans, remember?" Face glanced back and forth. "You think we can just walk around on the streets of Hanoi and not be noticed?"

"Yeah, man," BA agreed. "Won't we stand out?"

"It's the Tet New Year," Hannibal reminded, heaving a deep, refreshing sigh before looking up and locking eyes with Face first, and then BA. "The streets will be crowded."

"With Vietnamese," Face pointed out. "North Vietnamese. The dangerous kind."

"Oh, come on, guys!" Hannibal chuckled, surprised by the hesitation in his do-or-die unit. "What have we really got to lose here?"

"Our lives?" Face offered cynically.

"Our military careers?" Murdock added.

"And how is that any different from any other assignment?" Alan challenged, reclining in a chair against the wall with one leg comfortably up on the other. Murdock cast him a glare and vaguely wondered why he wasn't dead yet.

"Look, Sam Morrison may not be everyone's favorite officer," Hannibal continued, undeterred. "But he's still a damn good one. Our orders are to follow his orders. And besides, it'll be fun!"

Murdock sighed. Robbing a bank so far into enemy territory that it would take miraculous precision timing to extract them without running out of fuel was Hannibal's kind of fun alright. Standing on the streets of Hanoi and hoping not to get shot was a riot. Committing what might be construed as a war crime on the orders of a colonel none of them particularly liked or trusted - a man with connections to the Agency and a reputation to boot - now that was pure entertainment.

"There's no way," Face concluded, hung up on all the practicalities. "No way in hell."

"It's got nothin' to do with what we think'a Morrison," BA added. "It can't be done."

Face stood, pacing anxiously and rubbing a hand through his hair. Murdock noticed his other hand was bandaged, and a vague memory of wrapping it sprang unexpectedly to mind.

 _"What the hell did you do?" Murdock cried, sitting beside Face on the front step of the hootch and staring in horrified shock as Face rinsed blood and glass from the gash across his palm. Catching sight of the bruising and blood on the other side, Murdock's eyes widened. "You broke your fucking hand!"_

"Hey!" Alan yelled suddenly, snapping Murdock out of the hazy memory and bringing the briefing room back into focus. "Pay attention, dumb shit!"

For once, Murdock was glad for the bullying; he should really be listening to this. Unable to place the memory, he filed it under "shit I don't remember" and focused his attention on the mission briefing.

"Might I remind you," Face pointed out with a long look at Hannibal, "that you're the only one here - besides Murdock - who even has a working knowledge of Vietnamese? And Morrison wants this to be a strictly American operation? Is he trying to sabotage us?"

"Or maybe he just doesn't care if we all get killed over there," BA suggested.

"Which makes me think Westman probably doesn't know all the details," Face added.

"I put a call in to Westman," Hannibal informed. "But right now, he's back in the States. And if we want the advantage of the crowded streets, we have to move tomorrow. First thing in the morning."

Murdock cleared his throat. "Okay, one question." All eyes turned to him. "One very important question: What kind of chopper did you request for this?"

"Does it matter?" Hannibal asked, reaching into his pocket for the orders.

Murdock laughed, without humor. "Fly a Huey over North Vietnam and I promise you we're going to get shot down. Fly anything else and there's no way in hell we'll have enough fuel to make it there and back."

Hannibal looked at the orders. "Kingbee," he answered, handing them to Murdock.

Murdock took the papers, but didn't consult them. "And just how are we planning to refuel said Kingbee?"

With a casual shrug, Hannibal came up with an answer as if the question didn't deserve any real consideration. "Well, I guess we'll have to find a way to take fuel with us."

Murdock stared, eyes wide. "You're going to carry JP4 in the cargo bay?"

"Only on the way there," Hannibal smiled.

Murdock stared at him incredulously. "Okay..." Shaking his head to clear it, he tried to focus on the positive. "Well, at least if we explode, we'll never know what hit us."

"Think of it as a challenge, guys," Hannibal grinned, turning to rest a hand on Murdock's shoulder. As he looked back, he cast the same smile in the direction of both Face and BA. They did not smile back. "Our last big hurrah."

"Last?" Face challenged.

The two officers exchanged glances, and Murdock sat up a little straighter as an entire conversation passed through that look. Face didn't like this. Murdock didn't blame him. Hannibal knew more than he was letting on.

And Alan seemed to think it was hilarious.

"According to Morrison," Hannibal continued lightly, "this could help end the war. And I know everyone's in favor of that."

Face frowned deeply, cutting his gaze to the floor. "Given the way the war is currently going," he grumbled as he stood and headed for the exit, "I'm not so sure that's a good thing. For us, at least."

Shutting out the laughter that echoed in his mind, Murdock closed his eyes and tried very hard to focus on how this could potentially work out for good in the end. But after a long pause, receiving no encouragement from Alan's mockery and no profound thoughts of hope and welfare, he simply resigned himself to the inevitable and wished for the days not so long past when the adrenaline itself would have been worth the risk.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

 **1971**

It was still dark when Murdock touched down in North Vietnam. The team had less than two miles to walk before they would hit the outskirts of Hanoi. Then they had to find the bank, formulate a plan, and execute it before returning to this spot. After refueling the chopper with the canisters in the back - just as they were doing now - they would fly back to Da Nang. And if they were all still breathing at the close of this mission, it would be an absolute miracle.

"You're sure you only want six hours to do this?" Murdock yelled as he poured fuel into the chopper. He didn't like that they were standing on the ground in the middle of a jungle in North Vietnam. Nor did he like that he was refueling hot with a jerry-rigged hose and gas can, spilling JP4 on his boots. But most of all, he didn't like that when he came back again in six hours, he would be doing this alone, and then waiting in a clearing - surrounded by jungle and deep in the heart of enemy territory - for the rest of his team. Without contact.

"We'll be here," Hannibal assured him, clapping a hand over his shoulder.

Murdock cast him a worried look. "You'd better be." There were so many ways this plan could go wrong, he couldn't even count them all.

Hannibal reached for his cigar and Murdock's eyes instantly widened to the size of saucers as he nearly lost his grip on the gas can. "Don't even think about it!" he cried, stock still.

Hannibal chuckled, and made no attempt to find his lighter. "Relax, Captain." Chewing the end of his unlit cigar, Hannibal glanced around at his team, then back at Murdock. "You okay?"

"No," Murdock answered honestly. "Not in the least."

"Just hang in there, Captain," Hannibal said reassuringly, with an odd sort of seriousness in the foundation of his tone. "We're all going to take a few days off when this is over."

He was lying. Murdock could hear it in his voice. But instead of calling him on it, he forced a smile. "Right, Colonel."

Murdock looked them all over. Dressed in NVA uniforms with only AK-47s and small, over-the-shoulder packs for gear, they might have passed for enemy soldiers if they weren't so obviously Americans. Murdock shook his head. He hoped to God Hannibal knew what he was doing.

"See you in a few hours, Captain," Hannibal reassured, heaving the gun over his shoulder. He pulled his hat down low to cover his hair and as much of his face as possible. "Let's move out!"

 **1985**

The two guards in the secondary security room - including the solid wall of muscle Hannibal had resolved to keep in mind at all times - were too near the door to the basement to simply slip by. Sipping black coffee and dealing well-worn cards around a small round table, they didn't immediately notice when Face stepped into the room, holding a gun to the spine of the hostage from the front security suite. Hannibal had the larger of the two men covered before they had an opportunity to look up. The realization they'd been infiltrated still hadn't fully sunk in when Face, with practiced efficiency and speed, disarmed, tied, and gagged both of them, and the hostage from the front room to match.

It took longer than Hannibal would have liked to find the right key to the basement, and the door's hinges squeaked a little too loudly. Nevertheless, it opened without difficulty and he went first down the wooden stairs, gun ready just in case he needed it. This whole operation had been far more subtle than his usual style, and he felt a bit out of his element sneaking around like this. But he had both a hostage to think about and a rogue element masquerading as part of his team. Alan would've led the way had they come in guns blazing, and it wouldn't have been pretty, let alone successful.

At the bottom of the steps, Hannibal stopped when his feet touched rough cement. The basement was dark and damp - a large, open area lit only by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Clearly, since it came nowhere close to the width and length of the house, it had been designed as a mere wine cellar. Still, it was a sizeable one. On the far wall, thick wooden doors - old but not rotted - were built into cinderblock frames. Holding cells - three of them. Hannibal and Face both scanned the room, and found it empty, before moving from the safety of the stairwell.

Hannibal's first step on the gritty floor was answered by a hushed, "Psst! Hey!"

Startling in the otherwise silent room, the hiss from Alan went unacknowledged. As his eyes adjusted fully, Hannibal noticed only the single line of wet footprints - Alan and his escorting guard - in the thin layer of dirt and grime. By the look of it, the hostage they'd come for might not be here after all. And if that was the case, Hannibal didn't have the first clue where to start looking for her.

While he took a moment to improvise the next portion of the plan - taking into account the position of his men and considering the potential difficulty of taking Corrolini himself hostage while appealing to his loyal guards to reveal the whereabouts of Alan's daughter - Hannibal nodded for Face to get the door to Alan's cell open. It seemed a safe assumption that he was the one trying to get their attention with his muffled, "Over here!" Already halfway through a scenario which involved plowing through the main gates with Corrolini tied and gagged in the trunk of one of those pretty cars in the garage, Hannibal checked the cell beside Alan's. Peering through the hole in the door where the guards checked on their prisoners, he found it empty. But no sooner had he taken a step back then he heard a cracking female voice manage a weak, "Who's out there?"

"Tia, it's okay!" Alan called loudly.

"Shh!" The reaction was instantaneous from both Hannibal and Face, and Alan stage-whispered a hasty "Sorry!"

"Geez, are you trying to get us killed?" Face hissed angrily, finally pulling the unlocked door open.

Bursting out of his room and nearly plowing Hannibal over, Alan ran to the cell obviously containing his daughter. "It's okay," he whispered through the bars. "They're here to help."

Moving Alan aside with an arm, Hannibal made room for Face to try the keys in the door. Although the girl's features were obscured by the darkness, he could see the whites of her dark eyes as she stared out through the small rectangular hole.

"Hello," he greeted quietly. "You must be Tia."

"Tia, baby, it's okay," Alan interrupted, pushing Hannibal aside to insert his hand through the hole, desperate to touch the girl. "I'm here; you're safe."

Hannibal cast a look at the arm Alan wasn't trying to shove through the door and frowned. "That's broken," he announced confidently.

Not even acknowledging the pain, Alan jumped back as Face finally opened the door and a dark haired, fragilely thin teenage girl stumbled out to collapse against her father wordlessly. Dirty and disheveled with matted hair and torn, bloody clothes, she nevertheless appeared unharmed if undernourished. The blood was old, and probably her mother's. With no obvious bruises - even around her wrists - it seemed she'd been treated with surprising kindness. Most importantly, her eyes weren't glazed with the detached fear of someone utterly consumed by post-traumatic stress.

"Thank God you're okay!" Alan whispered, burying his unhurt hand in her knotted hair.

"We've got to go," Hannibal reminded, on edge. They only had so many minutes to work with before the risk of the whole plan unraveling was compounded exponentially by too many variables and too much luck. There would be plenty of time for the family reunion later.

Face dropped the keys on the floor, grabbed his gun again, and took the girl's arm, pulling her along as he raced up the stairs. Although reluctant to let her go at first, Alan was pleased to get a pistol back in the one hand he had use of and his daughter was more than willing to be led, reassured by the sight of her father. Up the steps and around the corner, Hannibal suddenly stopped so fast that Alan ran right into him.

"Face, get them to the car," he whispered roughly. He exchanged quick glances with Alan. "Go with him and do _exactly_ as he tells you."

Alan nodded his understanding. Face and the two prisoners disappeared into one of the rooms. From there they would most likely leave through the window, but Hannibal knew he could leave that to Face's discretion. In the meantime, he tucked his gun away and headed for the door at a leisurely pace.

The muffled sound of the single man gagged and locked in the front security room made him hesitate just for a moment, debating whether or not it was too great a risk to leave him conscious, so near a door where others might overhear his frustrated attempts to gain attention. But time was of the essence, and Hannibal kept walking, out the door and down the steps.

The man standing just outside the garage seemed surprised to see him leave the house without an escort. He didn't say anything, but Hannibal could see it on his face as he came closer. "I hope you don't mind," Hannibal explained, walking at a leisurely pace, "Jose had to use the restroom. He showed me to the door and I figured I could find my way from there." He held out a hand in greeting. "Chris Jackson."

"Wally," the man answered, leaving off his last name as he shook Hannibal's hand.

Hannibal knew better than to give him any more time than strictly necessary to consider the likelihood of Jose leaving him alone. With a smile, he continued quickly, "You the man who's supposed to drive me out of here?"

"Yes, that'd be me," Wally agreed, quickly dismissing the scrutiny he'd afforded Hannibal just moments before.

"Excellent." Hannibal smiled, and gestured to the black sedan parked in front of the garage. "Shall we?"

 **1985**

Alone in a room with his enemy - perhaps more accurately, his mark - Murdock initially thought the potential for conversation could only lead to a great deal of amusement for all. He was not what Corrolini had been expecting, and that was bound to make things interesting. The all-powerful crime lord kept a safe distance, and took pains to ensure his back was never turned.

"You're very efficient," Corrolini noted as he negotiated a path to the safe in the corner. Secure in his fortress, he hadn't bothered to hide it behind books or paintings. It simply sat on a low shelf, in plain view.

"It's my job," Murdock replied with a long, lingering glare. Antisocial personality disorders were always fun to play. "What you're paying me a lot of money for."

"So I am," Corrolini agreed. "Ten thousand, was it?"

According to Hannibal's surveillance, that was only half of what they'd agreed upon. Murdock's eyes narrowed into slits, guard raised as he suddenly considered the possibility that Corrolini may suspect something wasn't right. Was he testing him?

"Twenty," Murdock growled back. "Unless you would like to pay me the rest in blood."

"My mistake," Corrolini smiled pleasantly, crouching to twist the combination lock.

Murdock wasn't entirely sure what was in the safe; Face hadn't had time to crack it during their earlier surveillance. His sincere hope was that Corrolini would retrieve money and not a weapon. He had to buy the guys time, and wasn't anxious to grab the cash and run. But at the same time, he wanted to keep the conversation moving - to lead his target on a leash and not the other way around.

"Where did you find him?" the man asked, withdrawing a sealed orange envelope. He closed the safe again before standing and Murdock let out a well-concealed sigh of relief.

"Does that matter?" Murdock challenged.

"Not particularly, but I am curious." The man's scrutinizing gaze raked Murdock up and down. "You were so quick, it's as though you knew right where he'd be."

Warning bells rang loudly in Murdock's head. Concern over being baited and tested was quickly overcome by the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The look in Corrolini's eyes made it clear enough that the man not only suspected but felt sure something wasn't quite right. Caught, and aware it was only a matter of time before his cover was blown, Murdock kept his cool by sheer force of will, holding the character of Joseph Linus tightly in his grip. Until he knew how much trouble he was in, it was best not to show his hand.

"You hire, I find," he sneered. "Are you saying I'm too good at my job?" Without waiting for an answer, he held out a hand, palm up. "Money. Now."

Corrolini hesitated, studying him for a long moment before stepping forward and setting the envelope on the desk. He slid it across, remaining on the other side. "I'm not complaining," he clarified. Folded hands on the desk meant they weren't on a weapon beneath the desk. Whatever he suspected, he didn't seem to consider Murdock a physical threat. "I was warned that your methods were... curiously unorthodox."

This was not a point on which Murdock needed to prod the conversation along. Nor was it a point where he intended to hang himself if it was another test. Snatching the envelope, he ripped it open, and began flipping through bills quickly.

"Tell me," Corrolini baited, "where did you learn to be so good at your job?"

Murdock was satisfied the money was all there, but counting it bought him a moment to think. Somewhere along a very short line, he'd lost the upper hand. He cast a glare at the man holding the conversation's leash as he tucked the cash back into the envelope.

"You don't pay me enough to answer such questions," he growled.

"I pay you plenty," Corrolini shot back instantly, with the tone of a man very much used to being in charge.

Murdock raised a brow at the quite-obvious threat. On the outside, he maintained the perfect image of relaxation in the facade of his character. But his mind raced as he considered all the ways Corrolini might follow through.

"I don't pay people to play games with me," the man finally finished, the darkness in his voice reflecting the shadow that had fallen over his face. "And it seems to me, that's exactly what you're doing."

Ordinarily, intimidation tactics were some of the least effective against Murdock's calm and control. But just now, he wavered slightly. It wasn't because Corrolini was more terrifying than any one of a thousand other thugs he'd stared down before. Nor did it have anything to do with the fact that he appeared to be at the man's mercy, alone here in a room no doubt guarded on the outside. He was well enough able to handle himself under pressure. His team knew exactly where he was and apart from shooting him in the head right here and now, Corrolini posed little long term threat. But even convinced of his security, he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, sweaty palms itching as he struggled to maintain the slow, even breathing of a man in complete control.

Part of him was appalled at his inability to maintain the lie to the ordinary degree of perfection. The other part felt proud that he was still managing to breathe at all. Perhaps it was simply the memories, the voice whispering in his head just close enough to be heard but still too far away to make out. He'd pushed that voice down for nearly two decades, ignored it, tried to forget what it sounded like. Now it was back again, taunting him, threatening, reminding. Spewing forth all the evidence of who he used to be, Alan's presence over the last few days had unnerved him in a deep and visceral way he hadn't quite realized until now. His inadequacies were stacked to the ceiling, and he felt very small staring up at them.

"Let me be clear," Corrolini stated, leaning back in the oversized leather chair behind the desk. An instant later, he lowered his hands, reached into the drawer on the right, and casually leveled a pistol at Murdock. "I don't know what possessed you to impersonate a man you do not resemble in the slightest. Certainly, I cannot begin to think why you thought it would be a good idea to come into my house and lie to my face."

Murdock drew in a slow breath, eyes on the man and not the gun. Ironically, he was almost glad for the open threat. Now they could stop pretending, and it was somehow easier to think when the pressure reached this level of intensity. Survival was the only consideration, and anything else could be worked out in time.

"You are alive right now because you brought me Alan Parker," Corrolini continued calmly. "But if I do not receive a suitable explanation for your behavior in doing so, you will be the one paying me in blood."

Digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket, Murdock drew in a deep, calming breath.

 **1971**

0823\. Murdock checked his watch before heading away from the chopper. The B-team base Colonel Morrison operated out of was larger than most camps he'd been stationed in - here, there, and everywhere across South Vietnam. With semi-permanent structures, mostly-clean jeeps, and uniformed soldiers milling around as if they hadn't a care in the world, it was an atmosphere both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Murdock wasn't sure why his skin crawled when their gazes lingered too long, why he didn't wave back... why he felt as though he shouldn't.

"You're paranoid," Alan criticized, keeping pace with him. "Get a fucking grip on yourself before they tie you up in a straitjacket and throw you back in a dark room."

Breathing slowly and calmly, he closed his eyes for a few paces, then put a fake smile on his face before continuing toward the general headquarters building. He'd nearly reached the door when an unfamiliar voice called out his name.

Startled and not entirely sure if the voice was one the general population could hear or if it was a new addition to the chorus in his head, Murdock glanced around. His gaze came to rest on a private in well-worn but clean fatigues, vaguely familiar at a glance and more so the longer he concentrated on where their paths might have crossed before. Concern for his team - while still present - was pushed to the back of his mind where it remained a dull pain, nagging him. The more immediate problem was staring him in the face.

Suddenly putting a name to the face, his smile turned more genuine as he reached out to shake hands with the approaching man. "Carl! Long time no see."

"Man, I have been trying to find you forever," Carl laughed, pulling Murdock into a loose embrace. He paused as he stepped back and looked the pilot over, holding him at arm's length. "What the hell happened to you?"

"It's a long story," Murdock sighed, not sure whether the question referred to his sudden disappearance from the 20th SOS or the fact that he looked as though he'd recently been tossed into a tumble dryer.

Casting a lingering look at GHQ, he debated just how much he wanted to cut this conversation short. He needed to report to Morrison, and he needed to remind himself of the story he rehearsed to curious buddies from long ago. But the general sort of apathy that had settled in made him reticent to give either his best effort.

"Look, I've gotta go give a report," he tried casually, "but I should be back in -"

Carl tapped his shoulder and he flinched, fighting the unexpected reflex to jump back and defend himself. Startled, he watched as the oblivious soldier spun and took a few steps in the direction of the barracks. "Hey, c'mon, I got something for you!"

Looking back at GHQ, Murdock didn't move. Carl was already a few steps ahead, and didn't stop. "It'll only take a second," he assured, over his shoulder. "I'm headin' out and I don't know when the next time I'm gonna see you is. Already been almost a year I've been tryin' to find you."

A year? Drawn by the leash of his intrigue, Murdock followed reluctantly. "What for?" he asked.

Carl didn't answer, just led the way into the barracks and down the hall. Hands buried deep in his pockets, Murdock kept pace behind him. "Someone told me you got promoted," Carl said. His eyes swept over Murdock's shirt, but there were no patches there.

"I did," Murdock answered. "Switched to Army, too."

"Seriously?" Carl laughed. "Man, I never would've figured it. Your brother would shit a brick."

Alan laughed. "Tell me about it!"

Murdock lowered his head, but didn't answer. As Carl turned into one of the rooms, he followed a step behind. Carl walked to one of the beds - Murdock presumed it was his own - and reached under it for an olive green pack. "Sorry to do this so quick but, heh, like I said. I'm headin' out and God only knows when and if our paths will cross again."

"It's fine," Murdock assured, glancing around the empty room anxiously. Being here made him distinctly uncomfortable, not least because Morrison was still waiting for a debriefing.

"Here."

Murdock blinked as a wad of brown was suddenly shoved at him. As soon as he touched it, he realized it was leather. "Your brother got this for you - don't ask me where or how - right before he..." Murdock glanced up and met Carl's eyes. The other man shifted uncomfortably, shrugging as he lowered his gaze. "Well, yeah. You know."

"Before I died," Alan interjected. "You like that part, remember?"

Frozen in place by an unexpected wash of confusion, Murdock stared down at the bundle for a moment before he unfolded it slowly. Black eyes stared up at him, and he found himself looking into the face of a tiger, hand-painted onto the back of the brown leather jacket.

"He didn't really have any other personal effects," Carl said quietly. "What he did have was shipped back to the States. But I know he would've wanted you to have that since he... well, he got it for you in the first place. He was going to give it to you for your birthday or something. I don't really remember what."

Murdock swallowed hard as Carl clapped a hand over his shoulder. "I..." Not sure what to say, utterly confused by the gift, Murdock shook his head. "Thanks."

"Like I said, sorry to have to do this so fast," Carl continued. "But I gotta run. And you gotta go give report. Maybe we'll catch up sometime later?"

Murdock's feet were moving, but he wasn't entirely sure where he was going or why. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Sure..."

Outside. Morning sunlight. Carl left with a wave, heading to where his team was waiting impatiently. Murdock watched him go, then stared back down at the jacket in his hands, slowly unfolding it further and turning it. Alan had bought this? Alan had bought this for him?

"And you thought I didn't care," Alan mocked.

He shook his head, shoving his awareness of that voice into a far corner of his mind. Still gripping the jacket, he glanced over at the large building he'd been heading toward, and suddenly remembered why. With a shake of his head to clear the confusion, he held the jacket in one hand and walked toward GHQ, to Morrison's office.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

 **1971**

Morrison's office wasn't hard to find. Murdock had been there before. Down at the end of a vacant hall was a door slightly ajar. From the single voice inside, Murdock concluded before he had a chance to knock that the colonel was on the phone. He decided to wait rather than interrupt.

Standing just outside, Murdock put his back to the wall and held his hands clasped in front of him, still gripping the jacket. He glanced down at it and felt his stomach do a strange, uncomfortable flip-flop. Alan had bought this? Hesitantly, he lifted it again, studying the lines and creases of the American-made material. On the back, above the tiger, was a scrawled "DaNang 1970" in yellow-orange letters. A bomber jacket. Obviously hand painted. Wherever he'd gotten it, it must've cost him a fortune.

 _"Listen..."_

 _"They're whispering..."_

He lowered the jacket again, glancing down the long, empty hall. The choppy sound of Colonel Morrison's voice was the only thing he heard. Colonel Morrison... speaking in Vietnamese? Suddenly curious, but very much aware he was eavesdropping, Murdock took a step closer to the crack in the door.

 _"Listen... listen..."_

 __" _Chung toi co mot thoa thuan_!"

 _"Listen..."_

"[We had a deal! I have upheld my end; now you will uphold yours!]"

Murdock could feel his posture straightening, shoulders pressed back. The tone of the colonel's voice made his skin crawl. The words didn't help ease the uncomfortable feeling.

"[No, _you_ listen to _me_! I contacted you as soon as I was able. If it wasn't enough time, you just tell your men to move faster!]"

He paused. Murdock felt a flicker of guilt, and a growing awareness of what would happen if he should be caught eavesdropping on this conversation. He could feign ignorance and innocence as well as anyone, but it still wouldn't be pretty.

"[I could not possibly have known that Smith would leave so quickly.]"

Murdock's head snapped up so abruptly, he almost hit it on the door behind him. Suddenly, he cared very little about the consequences of being caught listening in on the private conversation. "[Listen, Cuyet,]" the angry tone was kept almost too low for Murdock to hear through the open door, "[you get your men out there to that bank, you take care of Smith's team, and you bring me my share of the money. I do not care how you do it. But if he comes back, how the hell am I supposed to explain those orders?]"

There was a tight feeling in Murdock's chest, gripping harder and harder with each passing second. He peeked around the corner of the door, staring in at the man in the desk chair who was gripping the phone so tightly, his hand shook. "[I gave you exactly what you asked for. I handed them to you on a silver platter! Ten million piastres is not much to ask - especially when you'll be collecting thirty. And for God's sake, don't let him get away!]"

He slammed the phone back into the cradle without another word.

The jacket had slipped out of Murdock's hand, and he let it fall as he pushed the door open a little and stepped inside. A middle-aged man with a full head of grey hair and fire in his eyes looked up and immediately locked stares with him. A look of surprise came instantly over his face.

"Who are you?" he demanded, startled.

Murdock knew his jaw was hanging open in shock at what he'd just heard. He was still processing the words very slowly. At the same time, he realized his hand was moving to the pistol on his belt. "I'm the pilot for the team you just sent to rob the Bank of Hanoi," he answered. His own voice sounded like it was echoing down a long, dark tunnel.

The look of surprise on Morrison's face was not without precedence. What One-Zero shared the details of their ground mission with the pilot? By all rights, Murdock should know nothing more than that they were dropped off in North Vietnam. The surprise mingled with a flicker of fear as the colonel saw where Murdock's hand was headed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

As Morrison reached under his desk, Murdock's movement sped up. In an instant, he had the pistol aimed directly at the older man's forehead. "Don't even think about it," he warned.

Morrison froze, and slowly raised his hands in surrender. "Put the gun down, son," he ordered tensely.

 _"Listen..."_

 _"He's a traitor... Treasonous bastard..."_

 _"He sent them to die..."_

 _"Deal with the devil..."_

"You sent your own men," Murdock growled, wading through the voices that were echoing in his mind. "You deliberately sent your own men into an ambush?"

"No, it's not like that," Morrison protested, laughing anxiously.

Murdock's grip tightened on the pistol as he breathed slow and measured, staring the traitor in the eye. "What was the deal?"

"What deal?" Morrison asked, feigning ignorance. But he wasn't a very good liar.

Holding the gun straight out in front of him, Murdock cocked it back with his thumb, the barrel pointed right at the man's head. "What was the deal!" He was only vaguely aware of the way his voice echoed off of the walls.

The silence settled over the room like a heavy blanket, smothering Murdock's efforts to breathe. Finally accepting what Murdock already knew, Morrison set his palms on the table. "What are you going to do?" he asked in a tone dead set between fear and challenge. "It's not like you can just shoot me and walk out of here."

 __"Tell me," Murdock growled angrily, taking a step closer, "or I will blow your fucking head off here and now."

 **1985**

Hannibal and Face wouldn't aid Murdock before the bullet in Corrolini's gun found its mark. Confronted with his lie, the unfortunate oversight of Corrolini knowing what his mercenary looked like, Murdock's brain ran a mile a minute in a desperate attempt to find a plan B.

"You have three seconds," Corrolini said simply, supporting his elbow on the desk as he took aim directly between Murdock's eyes. "One."

He could run; he wouldn't get far. He could try to overpower him; he'd be dead as soon as he took a step. No distractions were readily available and the long silence precluded any possibility of salvaging his cover. The indignation at being unjustly called a liar would've spewed forth long ago if it had been true.

"Two."

The gun cocked. Murdock felt the sweat drip down the back of his neck. The voices in his head screamed at him in incoherent madness, drunk on nightmares and the memory of pain and loss and the pitch blackness of fear. He could die, or he could live. Those were the only two options he had.

His resolve to live was so powerful, it was almost tangible. Straightening his hunched posture and letting the facetious accent drop, he looked Corrolini directly in the eye.

"Alan Parker is my brother," he said icily, letting the slight accent and the facade of insanity drop suddenly.

He had the man's attention. With a slightly amused look, Corrolini tipped his head and waited for more.

"You want him dead," Murdock continued, void of emotion. "I want him dead. But killing him myself poses some... difficulties."

"I won't pretend to be interested in your sibling rivalry," Corrolini replied, his tone suggesting he was not entirely convinced of the truth. "What interests me is how you managed to intercept my communication with Joseph Linus."

"I didn't," Murdock answered coolly. "Joseph Linus and I served together in 'Nam. He knew how I felt about Alan then and he knows how I feel about him now." He tossed the envelope full of cash back onto the desk. "I told him he could have the money - that is, as long as you held up your end. All I wanted was the satisfaction of marching that son of a bitch in through the front door and handing him over."

Corrolini studied him long and hard. But there was far more honesty than lie in Murdock's carefully chosen words. After a long, scrutinizing silence, Corrolini lowered the gun and sat back slightly, but didn't let it go. "Why the elaborate ruse?" he demanded. "You might have gotten away with it if not for the crazy act."

A wicked smile crept over Murdock's face as he felt the darkness inside of him wrap its claws around his being. "What makes you think it was an act?" he intimated.

Sitting a bit straighter again, Corrolini nevertheless kept the gun at rest as Murdock took a half step forward.

"I said I was his brother," Murdock growled. "I said I wanted to kill him and believe me, I've thought of all kinds of intriguing ways to do it. I never said I was sane."

Corrolini shook his head with a shrug. "I don't care," he dismissed. "What I want to -"

Murdock was fast, and the man wasn't expecting him to vault over the desk, pinning the gun with his knee. The brief struggle ended when Corrolini was unwilling to let go of it, and Murdock crossed an arm over his throat to silence any cries for help. There were almost certainly guards on the other side of the door, and the problem posed by their station - how was he going to get out of here now that his cover was blown? - briefly flitted across his mind.

"You know what I want?" Murdock growled, letting the seconds tick by as he indulged in some hardcore honesty. It was therapeutic, and there would never be a better time or audience. "See, he survived a POW camp, just like me. The black, the starvation, the beatings... oh, but that was only a small part of it. Your mind gets stretched on the rack, the joints start to separate, the blood vessels start to burst and you scream but nobody can hear you. And then, you snap. Then it's not hell anymore, it's just... empty. No more voices in your head, just voices you can't make out, can't tell if they're real or make believe. Then you realize you never knew what hell was."

Corrolini choked, gagging on his attempt to breathe. Murdock eased off the pressure on his throat a little, but not before he wrenched the pistol out of his fingers and spun it around, barrel to the man's forehead.

"I want to kill you," he snarled. A flicker of genuine fear crossed Corrolini's eyes. "Not because you deserve it although, let's be honest, you really do. But no. I want to kill you just because you're _not_ going to kill Alan Parker. And because even if you did, you wouldn't know how to do it right."

Still gasping for air, Corrolini stammered out a choked, "What do you mean?"

"You should've shot him in the head when you had a chance," Murdock declared. "Come to think of it, you should've shot me, too. You shouldn't have let him leave this room. But since you didn't have that kind of foresight, now it's just you with your failure, me with my unresolved anger -" He pulled Corrolini's tie from around his neck, wadded it up, and shoved it in his mouth before reaching behind him. Without looking back, he set the gun on the desk, exchanging it for a sharp, silver letter opener. "- and this very sharp blade."

The fear in the man's eyes was a bit more than a flicker this time as the sharp edge caught the light from the desk lamp.

 **1971**

Murdock felt nothing. Separated from his body by a haze of distant confusion, he stared at the scene unfolding before him without comprehending. He didn't hear the words that were spoken, as if they were in another language, and spoken to someone else very far away. Someone else was holding a gun aimed at his commanding officer, whispering something about hell and agony. As the colonel's hand darted under the desk again, someone else pulled the trigger of the Smith & Wesson .38, then stood still, staring at a lifeless body, blood pouring from two holes in his forehead.

A moment later, someone else was running down the hallway, then turning back to pick up something - he wasn't sure what - from off the floor just outside the colonel's door. Someone else felt the floor shake and the walls rattle, and felt the burning heat of an explosion as he sprinted outside. Finding cooler air, it was someone else who pulled a resting pilot out of a chopper by his shirt. Someone else closed the door and cranked without even looking to see if he had fuel, then lifted and headed north in the unfamiliar chopper without even radioing for clearance or radar contact.

In seconds, the base was only a hazy memory.

Chopper blades and rattling guns echoed in his ears. He had no gunner, no crew, but he could hear laughter from the cargo bay. He was lost, but the map seemed to glow. "Follow the yellow brick road," Alan sang, sitting comfortably in the copilot's seat. "Follow the yellow brick road."

"You shouldn't be there," Murdock answered. It took him a minute to remember why. "You don't know how to fly a helicopter."

"I could learn," Alan answered with a casual shrug.

Green carpet stretched out below - a million jungle trees in a never-ending expanse of enemy territory. "How many klicks from Hanoi are we?" Alan asked.

"What?" Murdock stared at him, confused. "Hanoi is in the North. That's nowhere near here."

Alan smiled. "I know. Funny how that happens. Somebody must have moved it."

This was a bad dream. He had to be dreaming. He frowned at the controls and realized he wanted to wake up.

"You know," Alan started contemplatively. "There's supposed to be one thing you can't do in a dream."

Increasingly desperate to find his way back to a safe, comfortable bed he hadn't visited in years, Murdock was ready to try anything. "What's that?"

"Die," Alan replied.

Murdock stared out the cockpit at the trees passing below with some apprehension. "So, if I crash... I'll wake up?"

"First, you have to go to Hanoi," Alan chided. "Otherwise they'll die too."

The brief memory of his team added to the hazy confusion, and he shook his head. "I thought people couldn't die in a dream."

"You can't," Alan corrected. "But they can."

Murdock frowned. "I don't know the way to Hanoi."

"Let me fly, then," Alan offered enthusiastically. "I know the way."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Murdock closed his eyes and relaxed. It was all going to be fine. Alan knew the way.

Gunshots startled him awake - Ping! Ping! - and voices on the radio made him realize he'd woken up into another circle of hell rather than that nice soft bed. Voices in the cargo area of the chopper made him want to look back, but for the first time since training, he was having a hard time keeping her level.

"Go, Murdock! Go!"

Hannibal? Murdock couldn't be sure, but it sounded like him.

"Can I wake up now?" he yelled back. "You guys won't die on me, right?"

Finally, he turned to glance back. He found the cargo bay was empty. Even Alan had abandoned the copilot's chair. Facing forward again, he heard incoherent sounds of victory from his invisible passengers.

His hands were on the controls, but he couldn't feel them as he eyed the green canvas below longingly. The confusion was a nightmare - everything happening so fast, the timeline so disjointed. The voices were screaming... Screaming...

Then the chopper was empty. Had he landed? Had they jumped out? Had they ever been here? Where was his team? He looked around at the fires of hell, blazing in the jungle below him and all around him. Screaming soldiers and secondary explosions. He didn't like this scene. The rotors were still turning. He was still flying. Fly away, to another section of Never Never Land. So many sections to explore. So little time.

Voices on the intercom, voices in his head, voices in the back of the chopper from long-dead ghosts. As he looked back, he could see them - bloody, mangled bodies oozing with the scent of death. Dead eyes staring at him. Colonel Morrison... "Murderer. You're a murderer."

Murdock faced forward again, turning his back on the horror of the scene behind him. He was ready to wake up now, a child safe in his own bed with his favorite blue blanket. Safe in his own home...

Murderer!

Only vaguely aware that he'd lost control of the chopper, the pain of hitting his helmet-less head against the Plexiglas window came as a shock. The sound of his own scream was the last thing he heard as the darkness engulfed him.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

 **1971**

"Where the hell would he have gone?" Face asked as he followed a step behind Hannibal.

The fires had all gone out at the camp in Da Nang long ago. The bodies had all been pulled from the wreckage - both the dead and the dying. The shelling had nearly leveled the GHQ; it had smoldered for days. Now, it was old news.

When Murdock hadn't showed up at the LZ, they'd started walking. It had taken more than a week to make it through to the DMZ, with only their survival training, a few meager supplies, and whatever they could confiscate along the way. And a limited supply of ammo.

"I don't know," Hannibal said quickly. "But he's not here. And I just talked to ground control. They don't know anything. There's a chopper that's been missing since the shelling. It's not his, but he might have taken it."

"What do you mean 'missing'?" Face asked. "That doesn't even make any sense."

It made even less sense that Murdock would fly anything but his own bird if he had the choice. Hannibal locked eyes on a man in a flight suit, staring at the sky with a slightly glazed look. "Hey!" Hannibal yelled, walking right up to him.

The man jumped to attention. "Sir?"

Hannibal eyed the wings pinned to his chest, then pointed to the chopper he was standing beside. "Can you fly that?"

Startled, the man stared for a moment. "I... yes. I just..."

"Colonel Smith," Hannibal introduced impatiently, shaking the man's hand. He used his other hand to throw his gear into the back of the chopper. "Get in and get your clearance."

The man stared at him, stunned. The two beside him - presumably the engineer and the gunner since they didn't have the telltale pilot's wings - exchanged glances and jumped up into the back of the Huey as the pilot called to another man. In seconds, he'd recruited a right-side co-pilot, and they began pre-flight check.

"Why wouldn't he get clearance?" Face asked again, setting his gear aside.

"Maybe it had something to do with the shelling," Hannibal suggested. "If I had to guess."

Face glanced around, feeling like he was missing something. "Where's BA?"

"Shit..." Hannibal growled. "He's looking for Colonel Morrison. Go find him, will you?"

Face vaulted out of the back of the chopper and Hannibal grabbed the headset off of the wall. "Where are we going, sir?" the AC called back.

"We're looking for a downed Huey," he called. "Somewhere between here and Nha Trang."

It made no sense, but Hannibal had learned long ago to trust that gut feeling. And right now, his gut was telling him Murdock had headed for Nha Trang - the one place in the world that he shouldn't have wanted to go.

 **1971**

There had been a battle here. Huge craters from artillery shells dotted the ground below - each twenty yards wide and at least ten feet deep. Some were much deeper, depending on what they'd hit. The torrential rains from the past week had filled the bottoms of the craters, soaking the sand with more water than it could absorb. It didn't help that they were so close to a flooding river, and a high water table. There were tiny little lakes at the bottom of each of the holes. In the middle of the devastated landscape, on its side in a mess of mangled trees, was a helicopter. It was a vision from hell, an alien landscape, strange and foreign and reeking of death and destruction.

The unfamiliar pilot had set them down a few hundred yards away in an LZ that had been hacked out of the underbrush some time ago. "What, uh...?" Without any orders except from the colonel who was jumping out of the back of the landed Huey, he wasn't entirely sure where to go now. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just stay here!" Hannibal yelled back over the deafening sound of the rotors. "If you have any trouble, get off the ground, stay close by. We'll be in contact!"

He didn't give the pilot a chance to protest. M-16 in hand, he followed a few steps behind Face and BA as they took off toward the downed chopper. By the time he reached the mangled remains, Face was already crawling up into it. Hannibal and BA scanned the trees as he searched it, then dropped back down.

"He's not in there," Face said quickly. "No blood, no sign of him. If it's the chopper he took, he got out."

"Sweep the area," Hannibal ordered. "And make it fast. No telling how long that LZ will stay green for us."

They split into three directions, and searched at a pace none of them were used to. Caution had always taken precedence over speed. But since they'd just spent a week in North Vietnam, sprinting through the jungle in a mad dash to get back to friendly soil, it wasn't the most dangerous thing they'd done lately. Not by a long shot.

Hannibal stopped at the top of one of the craters, and looked down. Bodies floated in the bloody water, propped against the sloping sides towards the bottom. NVA uniforms. Hannibal frowned as he studied the scene. What had killed them? If it had been the shelling itself, they would be burned, broken, blown apart. They weren't. They were bloody. Some kind of dump site?

As he narrowed his eyes at the scene, he suddenly realized that amidst the rapidly decomposing heap of corpses, a set of eyes stared directly at him. Instantly, he had his weapon pointed and ready. He didn't shoot, just watched. "Anyone alive down there?"

The face around the eyes was covered in blood and mud and filth; it was impossible to tell if he was looking at a friend or foe. It was impossible to tell for certain if he was even alive. Corpses with their eyes open always seemed to stare blankly at survivors. It could just be a coincidence that he was standing in the line of sight.

The eyes blinked.

Hannibal whistled sharply, three times. Within seconds, Face skidded to a stop beside him. BA was not far behind. "One of those bodies is alive." Hannibal shrugged his M-16 off of his shoulder and set it on the ground at his feet.

Face stared. "Are you fucking kidding?" He stared down into the deep crater. "Hey! We're Americans! Either answer or start shooting!"

"You keep that up, Face," Hannibal said quickly, unfastening his pack, "and they probably will. From the trees." He pointed back over Face's shoulder, reminding him that they were in enemy territory. If a battle had taken place here recently, the area was probably still swarming with enemy soldiers. He was surprised they hadn't been shot at yet. It was as if even the killers in the trees feared the thing in the dump.

"You ain't really goin' down in there," BA pleaded, his voice filled with worry and disbelief in equal amounts. He watched as Hannibal's pack hit the ground. "All those uniforms down there are NVA. That's probably another one of 'em."

"Or it could be Murdock."

BA's eyes widened at that. Hannibal knew that he hadn't even considered the thought. He'd been so distracted by the bloody sight, and the putrid smell, that he just assumed the carnage was left over from the battle - the same way Hannibal had when he'd first seen it.

"If it was Murdock, why wouldn't he answer?" Face asked quietly, solemnly.

Hannibal pulled a rope from his pack. It wouldn't hold two men, but it would hold one. It also wasn't long enough to tie to any of the trees and still reach all the way down into the hole. He handed it to BA, taking one end. BA shot him a worried look as he shouldered his M-16.

"Face, you keep a close eye on those trees," Hannibal ordered, slipping his gloves over his hands and pulling the pistol from his ankle holster. "I'll watch this guy."

Face turned to face the trees, wordlessly.

"You better make it quick, Hannibal," BA warned.

Hannibal clapped a hand over his shoulder and wrapped the rope twice around his hand before backing towards the edge of the crater. BA let him down a few feet at a time. This sort of rappelling had been both practiced and used before, and it was nothing new. As Hannibal came within a few feet of the bloody water's surface, he whistled sharply and the rope went taut, no longer lowering him.

He kept his pistol pointed directly at the eyes that were most definitely tracking him. Brown eyes. But the shape of the head didn't match the bodies that lay all around him. They were all dead - throats slit, blood drained into the pool that the lone survivor lay submerged in, peeking out only enough to breathe... and watch.

The smell nearly made Hannibal sick. He choked back the rising bile and took a breath. "Murdock," he said softly. The eyes blinked again. There was otherwise no response. "Murdock, it's Hannibal." He still couldn't be sure if the man he was speaking to was, in fact, HM Murdock. He wasn't even sure the eyes were human.

He gave another quick whistle and was lowered a few more feet, into the water. He was standing on bodies. Rotting, bloated bodies, decaying all around him. The water was deep red - a thick sludge of blood, also decomposing. He ignored it as he lowered down further, halfway up his chest before he finally touched the bottom of the crater. He let out a sigh of relief as his feet found solid ground.

Suddenly, movement. It came without warning - a figure launching at him and a knife. Instinct said to shoot. He didn't shoot. That was most definitely _not_ a Vietnamese. Too tall. He met the attack head on, disregarding fear as he grabbed the arm that was slashing at him with the knife. He lost the gun as he grabbed the man's arm. The pistol hit the surface of the blood-water and sank before he could even think to grab for it. But his attacker had lost his grip on the knife as well, and Hannibal twisted his arm behind him as he slammed him - face first, into the dirt wall.

"Hannibal!" BA sounded almost frantic. "Hannibal, you okay?"

"Just fine, BA!" Hannibal called back, preoccupied by the amount of strength it took to keep the struggling man pinned. "Murdock, listen to me! It's okay!"

Murdock was not listening. But it _was_ Murdock. He knew that for certain now.

Hannibal grabbed the rope, and set to the task of tying it around an unwilling subject who was thrashing violently. He kept him facing the wall; it was the only advantage he had.

"Is it him, Hannibal?" BA called down. "Is it Murdock?"

"It's him," Hannibal answered. "Pull him up, but be careful! He's violent!"

Instantly, BA pulled the rope that Hannibal had secured around Murdock's waist. Hannibal jumped back to avoid the flailing arms and legs. As he left the water, the traumatized man let out the most blood-curdling scream Hannibal had ever heard in his life. It was enough to make Face turn and look over the side of the crater.

"What in fucking hell is -" He saw Murdock before he had a chance to finish. "Jesus!"

"Face, get the morphine out of the front of my pack!" Hannibal ordered. Face disappeared again.

Hannibal stood in the bloody water, submerged up to his chest, and shut his eyes as he tried to gather his thoughts. Murdock was still screaming. As Hannibal looked around him, he counted ten bodies. There were more beneath the surface of the water, piled on top of each other. How many men had he killed down here? How many men had stumbled into it the same way he most likely had? How long had he been down here, unable to climb out, with no food, no water, surrounded by the men whose throats he'd cut?

Hannibal shut his eyes hard. Taking himself away from the sight, away from the smell, away from the thoughts of what it would be like to spend a week down here. It had been a week since he'd crashed... and he wasn't very far from the crash site. Seven days in this pit - six long, dark nights, entombed with the bodies of those he'd killed. He didn't want to think about it. He _couldn't_ think about it.

"Hannibal!"

He looked up suddenly. Face had lowered the rope again. "Come on, Colonel, I don't know how long BA can hold him."

Hannibal was all too happy to grab the rope and climb out of the pit. As he reached the level ground, he immediately and instinctively scanned the trees. There was nothing. There would be, though. It wouldn't take long before Murdock's screaming would attract them.

"Morphine," he ordered, before he'd even hoisted himself fully out of the crater. Face had a hold of his arm, and helped him find his balance.

"It's going to take all three of us to hold him down, Hannibal," Face warned.

Murdock fought against BA's grip with fists and feet and teeth. As Hannibal approached with the syrette, he stopped screaming and put all of his energy into his struggle. "Get him on the ground," Hannibal ordered.

It was easier said than done. Finally, they pinned him facedown, and BA pulled one arm behind his back before he sat on it. Face held his feet. Hannibal used his knees to hold down his wrist, turning his arm and shoving the dripping, blood-soaked sleeve up as far as he could. Murdock howled in agony. Hannibal ignored him.

"Don't let him move his shoulder, BA."

It was inhumane. It was brutal and appalling. And it was the only thing that they could do. If they couldn't calm him down, he would get them killed. And there was no way to get through to him in his current state. Better to dope him up.

Hannibal had to find a vein. Morphine was far more immediately effective if given intravenously, and they needed him quiet now. As the only medic on the team now, it was up to Hannibal and the kit of basic supplies he carried in his pack. Each time Murdock screamed at the needle's insertion, each time Hannibal failed to see the blood flash and wiped the sweat out of his eyes before trying again, he found himself cursing Cipher for his absence. Damn him for escaping this. Damn him for not being here, even if he _was_ injured. Damn Face for those injuries, and anyone that might've stopped him – including Hannibal himself. Damn Cipher for being the one among them who could've gotten the vein on the first stick, even in spite of Murdock's dehydration.

It took Hannibal four tries before he finally got the cannula inserted, twisted on an IV line, and filled the tube with a syringe full of morphine - the maximum dose he could safely give. With practiced efficiency, he threw the used needle aside and taped the hell out of the line so it would neither fall nor be pulled out, then stood and picked up his pack, quickly fastening it.

"Come on," he said roughly, putting his M-16 over his shoulder again. "Bring him."

Dragging the struggling, violent man through the jungle to the LZ was no easy task. The only thing they had on their side was the apparent lack of enemy soldiers in the immediate area. The morphine didn't even seem to affect him. Hannibal had never seen anything like it. After a week in that pit, any man should've been almost dead. How did he even have the energy to fight, much less to fight three grown men? To fight BA...

The chopper was still on the ground, rotors still spinning. Hannibal could see the look of relief on the pilot's face... until he saw the blood that both Hannibal and Murdock were soaked in, and realized that they were not merely escorting Murdock; they were holding him down.

"Is that your man?" the pilot yelled as Hannibal ran ahead.

"Yeah."

Wide eyed, the pilot shook his head. "Sir, I'll only take him if you tie him down! If he gets into the cockpit, he could kill us all."

Hannibal nodded his understanding, and slid the seven-foot aluminum pole out of the canvas seat in the cargo area of the Huey. Before they loaded their passenger into the Huey, they tied him to it. It didn't escape Hannibal's notice, as they lifted off the ground, that the crew's gunner had an M-16 pointed straight at Murdock as he lay on the floor of the chopper, still thrashing. He screamed and cursed and cried nonsensical threats in every language known to him, loud enough to be understood clearly even over the sounds of the Huey.

"Hannibal, are you okay?"

Startled by the question, he turned and looked up at Face, who had a hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine, Lieutenant."

As Face withdrew and knelt on the floor next to Murdock, Hannibal watched. Suddenly, he was not fine. He'd been submerged in blood, and could still smell the decay and bodily fluids that completely saturated his clothing. Shaking with adrenaline, coherent thought impaired by sleep deprivation, he was led by instinct alone. The instinct to survive had faded; he was safe. Now came the instinct to react to the sights and smells and perception of the situation. Finally - and too suddenly - he was sick.

He turned away from the bloody, broken shell of a man who was still screaming and thrashing in spite of Face's best efforts to calm him. Leaning as far forward as he could, Hannibal put his head between his knees and heaved. He knew then that he would never escape the memory of that pit, even in the brief time that he'd been in it. The bloated bodies, throats all cut. The smell that still saturated him, choking him. He clutched his stomach as it twisted painfully. The screams of his own man - not dead, but not alive - were echoing in his ears as he shook violently.

He felt a hand on his back - BA, if he had to guess - but ignored him.

"I assume you want me to take you to Nha Trang," the AC called over the intercom.

Hannibal didn't answer. His stomach emptied, and still dripping blood from his drenched fatigues, he sat up a little and hugged himself. Surrounded by the smell of death and Murdock's agonized screams, Hannibal covered his eyes with his blood-soaked hands, leaned forward, and wept for the first time in years.

 **1985**

Murdock stepped out through the front door of the mansion with his hands buried deep in his pockets. He didn't hesitate, didn't look back as Face pulled the car forward, meeting him at the bottom of the steps. Wordlessly, he slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him. Face knew instantly something was very wrong. He could see it and smell it and feel it radiating from Murdock more clearly than if he'd been carrying a neon sign. But neither of them said a word as Face pulled away, focusing on staying in character.

"Alan and Tia are in the trunk," he finally offered, in the hope of breaching the subject of what part of the plan hadn't gone so well. Best to discuss it now since it was likely to come back and hit them squarely in the jaw.

Murdock didn't acknowledge the success. With an uneasy sigh, Face tried again.

"Now we just have to get through these gates." Twisting his palms around the steering wheel, Face put his tension into his grip and kept it out of his tone. "Shouldn't be a problem unless they check the trunk."

Still, Murdock said nothing.

The first gate was easy - a smile and a wave from Face, a threatening look from Murdock that seemed a little too real, and they were on their merry way. But as they approached the second one, Face knew their luck had run out when the guard came out to flag them down, rifle in hand.

"Don't stop," Murdock warned, his tone as dark and dangerous as Face had ever heard it. Blinking in surprise at the shift from acting to a very real psychosis, Face looked back and forth between his passenger and the tightly closed iron gate.

"This car won't make it through those gates," Face said, shifting nervously as he slowed his approach. No way the sedan could plow through those bars even if there weren't armed men standing in front of them. He was going to have to stop.

"If you stop, we die," Murdock rehearsed, like prefabricated lines from someone else's story, completely void of emotion.

Face glanced at him, taking his foot off the gas to let the car slow before they came close enough for that threat to be carried out. Grabbing the handheld radio from between the two seats, he kept his eyes on the heavily armed guards as he opened the mic. "BA? You there?" Then he took his finger off the trigger and prayed.

"Yeah, I'm here."

Face let out a sigh of relief. "Where did you say those charges were planted?"

"At the second gate. Why?"

A much deeper sigh of relief was followed by a natural and relaxed smile as Face saw the way out illuminated like a bright red exit sign. "Would you mind blowing those for me?"

Face put the car in reverse and backed up a few yards. Startled, the guards all leveled their weapons at his car. But they never had a chance to fire.

The damage done by a few well-placed claymore mines was impressive. As the gate blew off its hinges and landed a good five feet away, crashing against a tree, the guards all hit the dirt and Face hit the gas. By the time the smoke cleared, they were halfway to the next gate.

"Don't suppose I could get you to convince the guard at gate three to open up, could you?" Face asked into the radio.

"Yeah."

Face set the radio on the seat and slowed a little, giving BA time to accomplish his assignment. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Face gave Murdock a hard look and asked the question that was eating him.

"What happened in there?"

Murdock's jaw twitched, but his eyes remained forward, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. He had to scrunch up against the door to find a place for his elbows, but whatever he was hiding, it was completely concealed. Or maybe it was just part of the leftover crazy from his act. Uneasy, but not sure whether or not he actually had a reason to be, Face tried to focus on the dirt driveway in front of him.

Before the third gate was even in sight, Face heard the rattle of gunfire from an M-16. Gate three was wide open when they passed, and the van - with BA and his assault rifle staring out the driver's seat - peeled out ahead of them. Gas pedals to the floor, Face and BA drove evenly spaced, putting as much distance between themselves and Corrolini as possible.


	23. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

 **1985**

The rumbling noise of the busses idling beneath the canopy drowned out the sound of the downpour hissing against the streets of Santa Fe, New Mexico. It didn't rain much here, and the thick drops gathered plenty of dust as they fell, cleaning the air and making it smell cool and fresh. Murdock couldn't have painted a more fitting scene for these last few moments of escorting Alan and his remarkably seen-but-not-heard teenage daughter. He guessed the shock of her ordeal held greater responsibility for her silence than upbringing or even inherent personality. In any case, he had less to say to her than any other hostage they'd ever rescued, and felt an odd sort of relief at Alan's neglect to properly introduce him to his niece.

"You okay, Murdock?"

Face's question, worried and focused, was not unexpected after the long, silent drive in the Corvette. Still it made Murdock swallow hard, clenching his fists tightly in his pockets as he watched Alan shake hands with Hannibal. Tia stood a step behind, eyes darting over the crowd, not even attempting a smile. Fairly certain he would never see her again, Murdock took a long hard look, committing her image to memory. She was family, after all. He at least owed her a memory.

"The official report said something about the water being too deep," Face declared, leaning on the van beside Murdock and watching Hannibal with mild interest.

Hands hooked into the pockets of his jeans, Face was the perfect picture of relaxation - perfectly opposite of Murdock who blinked, confused, and tried to determine how much of the conversation he'd missed. "Huh?"

With a sideways glance, Face offered a shrug. "You asked me how I cleared up the mess in the Bong Son River."

Although somewhat relieved he hadn't completely checked out and missed the part where Face prodded for an answer to the question about his state of mind, Murdock couldn't think of anything more to say than a simple, "Oh."

The twenty-year-old memory tugged on his mind in the long silence that followed, distracting him from the far more frightening images brought about by the man saying his farewells to BA. Hannibal had moved back, and reverted to casting long, concerned looks in Murdock's direction as he gradually came to the realization that no, Murdock did not intend to bid his brother a fond farewell. The sooner Alan was gone, the better Murdock would feel.

"How did the water depth have anything to do with it?" he finally asked, gratefully taking the way out Face had supplied.

With a chuckle, Face shrugged. "Nobody actually believed it," he clarified. "They just didn't want to deal with the hassle of a dishonorable discharge from Westman's A-Team."

Murdock shifted uncomfortably as more memories came, out-of-focus Polaroids tossed haphazardly in the box of his mind in no particular order. Some contained faces, staring at him with haunted eyes. Others more closely resembled abstract art - demons with enormous claws seeking to rip his heart out. Staring at the ground, he paid close attention to every breath of damp, cool air, filling his lungs slowly.

Following the trail of memories down the rabbit hole brought him full circle, back to the current reality. The blood on his hands had dried, but he'd still found no place to wash them and he couldn't keep them shoved in his pockets forever. Sooner or later, Hannibal would notice and would probably be a bit more confrontational about it than Face. Not that he thought he would receive a lecture on the worth of Corrolini's blood, but he didn't want to discuss how it had gotten on his palms and it was just easier to let them think the plan had worked out beautifully if that's what they wanted to believe. Frankly, it was what Murdock wanted to believe, and it was what he would believe, just as soon as he could scribble over the face of the most recent photograph and toss it into the box with the rest.

He'd gotten too close to himself today. Though reluctant to take a life and certainly not so much a sadist as he'd threatened, the simple fact of the matter was, he knew what he was capable of. He knew exactly what he would do, how far he would go to protect his team. The memories were unclear, but the instinct was ingrained. He knew a killer when he saw one, and Corrolini would not have hesitated to order their deaths if given the chance. Murdock saw only one way to make certain he wouldn't be given that chance. And it was okay, really. His conscience would survive, Alan and his daughter would go free, and the team would never know just how close he'd come to that dark thing inside of him.

"Why ask?" Face finally prodded. He sounded genuinely curious, if a bit too light, and Murdock could feel the weight of the expectant stare. "I don't think you've ever brought that up once since it happened."

Murdock drew in a quick breath, recalibrating his tone and posture to betray nothing of the blackness in his mind. "It's the last thing I remember clearly," he said quietly, casting a quick glance at Face. "From over there. It's the last thing that..."

Face continued to stare at him curiously as he trailed off, but only for an instant. Murdock knew he had his own memories - both alive and deeply buried - from the war. And not remembering clearly was not the same as not remembering at all. Years of therapy had gotten him closer to the truth than he ever wanted to come. He didn't want to think about it. The images in his mind, the flashes of memories made no sense. Frankly, they scared the hell out of him anytime they threatened to come to the surface. Better to just ignore them.

"Do you ever wonder..." He glanced up, watching from a distance while Hannibal said a few words to Alan's daughter. "Ever wonder how different it could've been?"

He glanced back at Face and caught his gaze briefly before they both looked away from each other. Fixing his stare on the scruffy man with his arm protectively around the shoulders of the half-Vietnamese girl, Murdock sighed internally. Alan had a purpose in the greater scheme of things. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the man had shaped the circumstances that had made Murdock into the person he was.

"If he'd never been sent to A Shau," Murdock continued, "I never would've gone after him. I might've never even met you guys."

Face drew in a breath and shoved his own hands deep into his pockets with a shrug. "No sense brooding about it."

"I'm not brooding," Murdock clarified. "Just... wondering."

Face was quiet for a long moment. As Tia bowed respectfully to Hannibal, she finally managed a smile, then cast a glance in Murdock's direction. Unable to manage a smile of his own, Murdock looked away.

"If it makes you feel any better, I would've probably been dead a hundred times over with a lesser pilot." Face paused, putting his back to the van with arms crossed loosely. When he continued, staring out at the wet street beyond the canopy, it was so quiet, Murdock barely even heard him. "Or friend."

Murdock took a deep breath, and let it out slow, watching as Alan and his daughter stepped onto a bus without so much as a wave back at him. Maybe it should've bothered him. But it didn't. Maybe the fact that he felt nothing was part of what felt so... wrong.

"Are you okay?" Face asked after a long silence. "You've really been out of it since he showed up."

He let the question hang. Murdock's jaw twitched as he briefly considered answering it, then shook off the thought. Face didn't want to know any more than Murdock wanted to tell.

"You ever had a memory that's so bad you can't even remember it?" Murdock asked abruptly.

Face's eyes shut, jaw tightening as the walls of defense suddenly and inexplicably materialized, three feet thick, around him. "Murdock..." His voice was low, edgy. Was that pain? "Please don't go there."

Well aware it was the question Face had wanted to avoid, and aware too that he had quite accidentally lulled his friend into a false sense of security before asking it, Murdock still couldn't help but continue. "Everything after that crash in the river is a blur," he admitted, out loud for the first time. Sure, he'd said it to therapists before. But saying it now, to Face, made it more real than all the recitals he'd made to date. "I remember these little flashes like snapshots. I know pieces of what happened. But I can't put the pieces together."

Face rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease away the tension and searching for a direction to look that was far from where Murdock stood. "That's probably not a bad thing."

"I had a lot of hallucinations, Face," he said in a rush. "I did things, saw things that weren't real."

"You sure about that?" Face asked abruptly, surprising him.

For a moment, Murdock was caught off guard. "I..." he stammered, shaking his head. "What do you mean?"

Face sighed. "Look -" Finally, he turned toward Murdock, stepping closer to lower his voice so only the two of them could hear. "- it was bad. Towards the end, it was really, really bad, Murdock."

"Yeah, I know that, Face. I -"

"No," Face interrupted, shaking his head. The look in his eyes was surprisingly intense, and it silenced Murdock. "No, you don't. Be glad you don't."

"I remember the crater," Murdock said suddenly. As the words escaped his mouth, like magic, the fragmented pieces fell into place. Face closed his eyes and turned away. "I remember waking up in this black hole I couldn't climb out of and these... these trees would fall down in it and they'd almost hit me. And there was a big dragon that flew overhead - a huge dragon that screamed and screamed - and I know now it must've been a plane, must've been you looking for me, but I _saw_ a dragon and I still remember what it looked like and how it smelled and all the -"

"Murdock!" Face cut in loudly, irritated.

Closing his eyes tightly, Murdock drew in a deep, calming breath. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

Face sighed again. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" he asked with less irritation now and more concern. "Let it go, Murdock."

"I can't." Hearing the way that his breathing hitched, he opened his eyes again, and focused on his surroundings. "My shrink keeps tryin' to get me to remember what was real and identify the things that couldn't be. And then that hallucination that was there through all of it turns up in real life and it all just comes crashing back. All the not-real memories that are more real than the ones that are real."

Face looked away again.

"All the monsters, all the voices, all the dead soldiers. All those dead... empty eyes just starin' at me, Face. An' I can hear them talkin' to me. I can feel... I can feel them looking right into my soul and I hear what they're sayin' and it -"

Murdock stopped abruptly as he read his friend's pained look. It was more genuine emotion than Face _ever_ let show. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't even want to hear about it. Murdock couldn't blame him.

"It's over," Face said quietly. "It's been over a long time."

Licking his lips to bring moisture back to his mouth, Murdock turned his head away. "Yeah, I know," he lied.

His eyes drifted to the bus as it pulled away, heading for destinations unknown. Alan didn't know it, but he was safe. There would be no reprisals, no one searching for him and taking revenge on his new life, wherever he established it. The only gift Murdock had to give to the niece he would never know was her safety, and it was worth every drop of the sticky film between his fingers.

Face leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Face pushed away from the van. "Come on," he said.

Murdock glanced up at him, unsure. "Where are we going?"

"Just come on." The smile was fake, forced. But he'd given it his best shot. Murdock appreciated the effort. Slowly, he moved to follow.

Face turned as they both started walking, and put an arm around Murdock's shoulders, leading him toward the Corvette. "This is over," Face said with a false reassurance. "Let me buy you a drink."


End file.
